


Bringing Greg Home

by Freebirdflying



Series: At Home with the Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternating Time Periods, Eventual Johnlock, Eventual Romance, Evolution of a friendship, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Hostage Situations, I mean sloooooooow burn, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, mystrade, new scotland yard, police work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-02-26 16:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 74,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13239540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freebirdflying/pseuds/Freebirdflying
Summary: Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade has always known that his job came with the risk of danger; he was prepared for knives, guns, and belligerent drunks, but he never saw being taken hostage by violent members of a Mexican drug cartel coming. His only hope of being saved is that one of his closest friends is a consulting detective and another is the "minor" wizard-behind-the-machine, Mycroft Holmes.  If "friend" is really the right word for what Mycroft is to him...God, he'd like to live to find out.





	1. Present: November 3, 2015

Greg Lestrade took the first sip from a fresh cup of coffee: real coffee, from the cafe down the street, not the hot brown water from the break room. He was tired, and it was only one in the afternoon. 

“Greg? Just got word about where to find Alvarez.” Sally Donovan popped her head into his open office door. “He was seen going into a restaurant in Southwark.” 

He sighed and stretched before putting on his jacket and patting his pockets to make sure he had his warrant card, handcuffs, and phone. Alvarez was their main suspect in the strangling death of his girlfriend and they’d had enough evidence to arrest him for a week, but he’d gone to ground. It would be nice to finally get this one wrapped up and have one less stack of paperwork on his desk. 

“Let’s get down there before he pops back into his burrow, then. I’ll drive.”

Sally radioed for backup as they made their way to Greg’s car, and by the time they were pulling out of the parking garage a panda car with two uniformed officers was waiting to follow. 

“A second car is already in the area if we need additional backup.” 

Greg grunted his acknowledgement. He reviewed the case in his mind as he drove. Katrina Lopez had been found strangled in a rather posh hotel room; all evidence on the scene pointed to a romantic liaison gone wrong: wine glasses, lingerie, a smashed champagne bottle, reports of loud arguing from the room next door. Review of the hotel’s security tapes from the elevators showed a short but burly man with a cocky lear, tattoos spilling out of the collar of his white dress shirt, with a possessive arm around her waist. Facial recognition brought up Armando Alvarez, in the system from a drugs charge at the age of nineteen. Apparently, he’d been in the US and Mexico for most of the intervening years, only visiting London occasionally. He’d sent a request first thing this morning for any criminal history he might have in the US but hadn’t received a reply just yet thanks to the time zone difference. 

He glanced over. Sally was flipping through the incident report from the hotel crime scene; this was one of three cases they were juggling at the moment and had been on the backburner for the last few days as they waited for a lead as to Alvarez’s location. He should have sent that request for the American arrest record, if there had been any arrests, days ago, but he’d been drug from the hotel room directly to a rather gruesome murder-suicide that left a three-year-old orphaned, and had just remembered. Usually Sgt James stayed on top of that sort of thing, but he was out with the flu this week, which had just added to the workload. Greg took another large gulp of his now lukewarm coffee. 

“Any known associates in London?” 

Sally hummed as she flipped through her notes. “A cousin; he was living with him at the time of his arrest in 1999. Mark did a search; the cousin still lives in London, but Alvarez hasn’t been picked up on CCTV in his neighbourhood since the murder. There were indications in the records from his prior that he was involved in gang activity in the US, but he’s never popped up in anything here.” 

Another gulp of coffee. When was the last time he’d just been able to enjoy a cup? And why weren’t caffeine IVs a thing yet? He ran a hand through his hair as he turned down the street from the address Sally gave him. 

The radio crackled; it was Officer Blakely in the panda car behind. “Back up enroute, five minutes out.”

“Hold position; we’ll do a drive by and check for signs of movement.”

Greg cruised as slow as he dared, acting as if he were looking for a parking spot. He nearly hit a curb when Sally grabbed his arm. Alvarez was coming out of the corner convenience store with a six-pack of beer, glancing down to check his phone while waiting to cross the street. Suddenly he glanced up and caught Greg’s eye, and then glanced down the street. Greg craned his neck to see what Alvarez was seeing. Back down the street, Blakely and Evans in their panda car were clearly visible. What part of hold position did they not understand!?

Alvarez’s eyes widened and he took off like a shot, dropping the beer. Darting across the side street, which thankfully for him was clear at the moment, he ran around behind the closed-for-remodelling restaurant on the opposite corner. Greg shouted over the radio, “He’s doing a runner!” They turned the corner just in time to see him slamming the door behind him. “He’s inside the restaurant! We’ll take the back; you secure the front entrance.” Thank God, the second panda car pulled in behind the first just as he and Sally scrambled out. He motioned for the newcomers to take the front while shouting “With us!” to Blakely and Evans. The officers nodded and ran to go in ahead of Greg and Sally. 

The door was surprisingly unlocked. The officers called out as they burst into the disused kitchen: “Police! Show yourself!” 

An explosion of movement and pain. 

Back at his desk, Greg’s abandoned email inbox chimed with incoming messages from Texas and from Interpol: “Armando Alvarez, known cartel member. Rising in the ranks, nephew of the head of the Banahua Cartel. Approach with caution; armed and dangerous and travels with cartel security.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, here we go! I'm hoping to post a chapter every two to three days if things go according to plan. If you are worried about unfinished WIPs, I already have 90% of it written and I'm mostly just editing and tying up some loose ends. Feel free to harass me if I take too long; I work best under pressure. :)
> 
> I changed the name of the series; I hope that isn't confusing for anyone! I'm still not absolutely in love with any of the titles in the series; if anyone has any better ideas, I'm open to suggestion. 
> 
> This fic will be alternating between the present-day story of Greg's kidnapping by the cartel and flashbacks to previous events in his and Mycroft's lives. The chapters in the past will be dated. I'm hoping this will be clear, but if it becomes confusing, let me know. Note: the "present" is November 2015. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I wish you all a happy 2018 filled with many Mystrade kisses!


	2. February 2005

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a bonus chapter for today, since the early chapters are shorter than later chapters will be. :)

_**2005, Late February**_

Mycroft Holmes first saw Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade on a CCTV recording. Early that morning, he’d picked up his brother from a holding cell where he’d been stuck to sleep off his latest high. Between glares of ingratitude (and what must have been a pounding headache as he came down), Sherlock mumbled about a murder weapon, the wear patterns on someone’s shoes, and how “those idiots” just couldn’t understand. 

Somehow he convinced his brother to shower once they arrived back at Mycroft’s home. He tried so hard to keep tabs on Sherlock, but Sherlock had long since learned to lose a tail and keep his face turned away from cameras. Contrary to his brother’s beliefs, Mycroft didn’t enjoy snooping into all of his business and trying to interfere with his life. But honestly, what was an older brother supposed to do? Sherlock insisted on living in squalor and seemed to have no sense of self-preservation at all. 

While Sherlock lingered in the shower--Mycroft didn’t know if he was trying to drown himself, or was just avoiding the argument they were likely to engage in--he finally had time to think. There had been no mention of charges against Sherlock; every other time he’d picked Sherlock up after he’d been arrested (and what did it say that there had been enough incidences that there was a “normal” pattern?) he’d spent the next day smoothing ruffled feathers and calling in favors to get the charges dropped. What had happened this time? 

Of course, he’d managed to distract the officer who was discharging Sherlock enough to get a quick glance at the report in his file. He had been taken into custody on the corner of Pennethorne Road and Goldsmith Road in Peckham, and the arresting officer had been a DI Lestrade, but that was as much as he’d been able to read before the page had been covered by the discharge form. His PA should have a copy of the file on his desk by the time he got back to the office, but in the meantime, he could do a little investigating of his own. The shower was still running, and if Sherlock had been in there this long, he’d probably stay until he’d used up all the hot water out of spite, or until he realized that the attempt was futile because Mycroft had had new hot water heaters installed so that that would never happen. With a sigh, he went downstairs to his office and began pulling up CCTV footage. 

Sherlock’s mutterings about a murder weapon made more sense as the footage opened to a scene of flashing lights and crime tape. Several officers were milling about a sheet-covered figure that looked to have been retrieved from the adjacent skip. He fast forwarded through several more minutes of photos being taken of the skip and the body to the point where a dark figure in the corner of the screen edged closer to the action, finally slipping under the tape when no one was looking. Sherlock actually made it within ten feet of the body before a young female officer noticed and began wildly gesticulating, obviously telling him off for being too close. She attempted to take him by the arm and direct him back to the small crowd of lookie-loos across the street, but he jerked away and accosted an older officer who had just looked up from his note-taking to see what the commotion was. 

This officer seemed to be the one in charge. His hair was salt and pepper, likely to be completely silver within five years. Sherlock was a bit unsteady on his feet and looked like he might have recently spent time in a skip of his own, but he was waving his hands with excitement and rambling on about something. Mycroft read his lips during the parts that he was facing the camera, which became a challenge as his brother began to pace. 

“...Obvious that he was attacked with a crowbar...not from Peckham...just look at...did you see...shoelaces soaked in a greasy substance...how that idiot missed...poor customer service...the killer’s girlfriend...no, I don’t know him personally...of course not...no, I don’t need medical attention...listen!...I didn’t witness it, aren’t you listening?...I observed…” and at that point, they had circled each other enough that Sherlock’s back was to the camera. What was surprising was that the Detective Inspector, as he must be, had allowed him to ramble this long. He was subtly edging Sherlock back towards the barrier, but he hadn’t called in the uniformed officers to drag him out by force just yet. He seemed to recognize the signs that this crazy person was high, but let him go until they had nearly reached the nearest panda car, asking questions as they went. 

With a nod, two officers who had been standing by came up behind Sherlock and took him by the shoulders. Mycroft winced at how drug-addled his brother’s senses must have been to have been caught by surprise. Sherlock began squawking and thrashing but was manhandled into the backseat. The DI spoke to him quietly through the open window, but the light was too low for further lip reading. 

Mycroft fast forwarded through the next hour of footage, as the investigation continued, until the car containing Sherlock left. A couple of times, Sherlock managed to get the window rolled down and yelled something at a passing forensic tech before the increasingly exasperating officer standing guard bullied him into shutting it again. 

Going to back to the part where Sherlock and the DI were speaking, Mycroft began to deduce. This must be the Lestrade who signed the arrest form. Between thirty-seven and forty-one, married, was missing some previously-scheduled engagement to be at the crime scene, right-handed, on-again-off-again smoker, played football when he was younger, very attractive. Attractive? 

Mycroft rather surprised himself with his own observation. Not so much that he recognized the DI as attractive; someone with his skill in reading (and manipulating) people was obviously aware of who was considered attractive and how that coloured both their worldviews and other people’s reactions to them. But he hadn’t classified the DI as attractive only in his usual clinical, box-checking sort of way. He, himself, found him attractive. Or at least, as attractive as it was possible to find someone in a video from thirty feet away in the odd lighting of yellowish street lamps and flashing blue and red from the emergency vehicles. 

But then, if the DI managed to be attractive in the midst of all that...he must be very nice looking indeed in better circumstances. Would he clean up well? Would he have a nice voice? (In Mycroft’s cultured opinion, certain accents were an immediate turn-off.) How would he look in leather in Mycroft’s favourite little fantasy? 

Sternly pulling himself together, Mycroft closed the video with a decisive click. What was wrong with him today? His brother was out of control and would probably be trying to sneak out of the dining room window any minute now; this was not the time to be fantasizing about a man he hadn’t even met in person yet. A man who he had deduced was married. (But happily married? Not enough information from the video. STOP IT!) A man he might meet at some point, as Sherlock had a bit of a habit of being nosy at crime scenes, and an officer actually hearing him out before handcuffing him would only encourage the behaviour. And if that introduction came to pass, he’d need to be able to face him in full control, without blushing, so imagining him in leather was NOT on. 

A retching noise from the stairway diverted his attention in the most disgusting way possible, as Sherlock took the stairs a bit too fast for someone suffering from cocaine withdrawal. Stepping over the mess with a sigh, he prodded his recalcitrant brother right back into the shower he’d just emerged from. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will be alternating between the present-day story of Greg's kidnapping by the cartel and flashbacks to previous events in his and Mycroft's lives. The chapters in the past will be dated. I'm hoping this will be clear, but if it becomes confusing, let me know. 
> 
> The "present" is November 3, 2015. I wrote this whole fic thinking it was in 2016 only to realize the day I started posting it that I'd made an error in my notes. The timeline in this show is a bit sketchy sometimes; I work on the assumption that the Christmas Magnussen died was in 2014. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I wish you all a happy 2018 filled with many Mystrade kisses!


	3. Ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mild sexual assault/threat of sexual assault, non-graphic violence (or it doesn't seem very graphic to me; let me know if I need to warn more strongly. I'm rather inured after years of binge-watching CSI while eating.)

Sally didn’t even have time to react to the sight of her boss taking a blow to the head with the butt of a gun as she was grabbed by her arms and jerked backwards into someone’s arms. Struggling to get her feet back under her, she watched as the uniformed officers were simultaneously punched in the gut by blokes with shaved heads and facial tattoos. Greg went to his knees. 

“Now, just take it easy, sweetheart, and we won’t mess up your pretty face.” Eyes narrowing, she jerked forward in an unsuccessful attempt to break his grip. Her best self-defence training was not enough to escape, although she did manage to stomp on the goon’s foot and put a pretty good scratch down his forearm. Too bad he was smart enough to avoid her teeth. She ended up pinned with her back to his chest, a beefy arm across her elbows and ribs, gasping for air. 

A hot, damp breath in her ear was followed by a lascivious whisper. “Oh, yeah, baby. I like ‘em feisty. Look at you all hot and bothered,” followed by a hot, wet, slimy tongue up the side of her neck. He had LICKED her. The first thing she wanted to do when they got out of here (if they got out of here) was to take a shower. She twisted again, trying to get an elbow in the idiot. “Now, now, there’ll be time for that later, if you want to get rowdy,” and with his free hand he grabbed her breast and squeezed so hard she gasped in shock. 

Furious now, she tried to calm herself enough to not react. She had to be smart, and wait for a better opportunity. The other two officers had been subdued, stripped of their weapons and identification, and handcuffed with their own cuffs. One’s arm looked to be broken, and the other was dripping blood from a split lip. 

“Found these two pigs trying to come in the front.” Two more thugs shoved the officers from the second panda car into the room.

So much for their backup. The officers were shoved to their knees next to the others, one of them screaming in pain as some injury from the scuffle at the door was jarred. 

“Boss, what should we do with them?” 

“Put them in the freezer. We’ll take that one with us just in case we have any more trouble.” 

Greg was hauled roughly to his feet. He wobbled just a bit, but he’d shaken off the worst of the stun from the blow. His hands were cuffed tightly behind his back, and blood had dripped down his right sleeve from an injury Sally couldn’t see. 

The other officers were herded and shoved into the (thankfully inoperative) walk-in freezer. 

“Sure we can’t take this one instead? We could have some fun with the chica if we get bored.” 

Sally’s stomach dropped. 

“No. Stop dicking around; you can get your rocks off some other time. This one’s higher up, better leverage. Shove her in there and _let’s go.”_ The boss, as they’d called him, had stood silently on the edge of the chaos the whole time, and the glare on his face stopped all arguments from her sweating captor. Alvarez himself seemed to be in charge here. 

Sally caught Greg’s eye as he was marched back to the door they’d entered from. He was shaken, but had a steely glint. She kept her gaze steady and as confident as possible until she was abruptly released from the tight hold and spun around, thrown to her knees in the door of the freezer. “Get in there, you slut.” 

With a screech and the fury of a wildcat, she scrambled to her feet and aimed a knee at the crotch of the slimy creep. The hit connected, but just hard enough to make him angry and not enough to cause the lasting damage she would have preferred. 

“You BITCH!” The raging bull slammed her head first into the wall and she collapsed into darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has been encouraging as I post this, my first time posting WIP-style, especially the blu doc group! I'll be back in a couple of days with more of Mycroft's story!


	4. February to April 2005

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, here's chapter four. I meant to post it yesterday, but when I went to add the little part at the end that I hadn't already written it turned out not to be such a little part.

_**2005, Late February to Late April** _

Two hours later, Mycroft sat at his desk in his home office replying to classified emails, enjoying a much-deserved danish, now that Sherlock wasn’t slinking about looking for something to harangue him about (Yes, he’d been overweight as a teenager, but goodness, he ran on the treadmill and didn’t overindulge too often, and he was at a healthy weight, thank you very much--but he was grateful, in a way, that his incessantly annoying brother had picked dieting as the point to needle him on. At least it wasn’t something he was _actually_ self-conscious about). He’d followed Sherlock about the house (so much easier when he was too nauseated to move too abruptly) thwarting his escape attempts for the last hour, but the great child had finally collapsed into an exhausted heap in the middle of the sitting room floor and was snoring faintly. 

The phone at his elbow buzzed. 

“Yes, Anthea?”

“I have a call for you that came through your public phone number. A Detective Inspector Lestrade? I believe it’s about your brother.”

“I’ll take the call. Thank you.” Why was the DI calling now? Usually, once he’d bailed his brother out, the officers involved were just happy that Sherlock was no longer their problem and were in a hurry to forget his existence until the next time he was announcing their affairs from a holding cell. 

Or they wanted to arrest him as the murderer, since he must be if he knew what the murder weapon was when they didn’t? Probably that again. Mycroft sighed. 

“Detective Inspector? This is Mycroft Holmes speaking.”

“Mr Holmes. Thank you for taking my call. You are the brother of a young man called...Sherlock...Holmes, is that correct?” The DI paused at the name, checking his notes to be sure he was remembering it correctly. 

“Yes, he is my brother.”

“I took your name and number from the forms signed when your brother was released into your care. I do apologize for the imposition, but I need to speak with Sherlock.” 

“I assure you, his lawyer will be in touch about…”

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just...I’m not sure how much he’s told you about what happened last night.” 

“I believe I am aware of the events that occurred,” carefully avoiding _how_ he knew; Sherlock certainly hadn’t been forthcoming. 

“Okay then…” Lestrade seemed a bit taken aback by the formal tone, but bravely pushed on. “It’s just...in case he didn’t tell you, or didn’t remember as he was under the influence at the time...he came up to a crime scene I was working, and within minutes had figured out the murder weapon, where the poor sod had been, a motive, everything. Stuff my team didn’t figure out on their own until hours later.”

“And now you consider him a suspect. Unusual for you to call ahead before making an arrest, or is it that you want me to convince him to turn himself in?” 

“No, no! I mean, yeah, of course, my first thought was that anyone who knew so much was a witness at best and most likely involved. But he wasn’t acting like he was guilty. And he seemed entirely too intelligent, even high, to have come back to a crime he’d committed when he could have been elsewhere establishing an alibi. I wanted to believe he really did just figure all that out, but of course I had to back it up. My sergeant was all but demanding blood. So I checked with an informant, who’d seen him that evening. CCTV backed it up; he was blocks away and in sight of the informant at the time of death.”

“Yes, my brother does seem to be unnaturally attracted to crime scenes. I do apologize for the nuisance…” It wasn’t the first time that someone had complained to Mycroft about his brother’s presence in their lives. 

“But that’s just it; he wasn’t a nuisance. Or, well, he was rather rude to the officer who was guarding him. And he did sneak past the crime tape without asking permission. But...he was right. About everything. I just want to talk to him to find out how he figured it out, and there are a couple of details he gave me that my team still hasn’t figured out.” 

Mycroft was surprised, and it took a lot to surprise _him_ (waking up at the age of fifteen to find someone balancing the frog they are dissecting on your chest tends to inure a person to shock). No one ever wanted to know _how_ Sherlock knew things; they just wanted him as far away as possible. 

“I...I can see if he will agree to speak with you. He’s sleeping at the moment, but I can broach the subject when he awakens. Were you looking to speak with him over the phone or in person?” 

***** 

To Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock agreed to speak with the Detective Inspector. Well, not so much that he was willing to speak--Sherlock always enjoyed hearing himself talk--but that he was actually doing so upon request and giving genuinely helpful information. The conversation was interspersed with thinly veiled insults, but still…

Mycroft had advised that he speak with the DI over the phone first; his sceptical and jaded mind couldn’t help but be suspicious that it was a ploy to lure Sherlock out to be interrogated or arrested. The DI listened carefully, though, and asked intelligent questions, and offered Sherlock the usual informant fee when his deductions led to the apprehension of the culprit. 

Over the next weeks, life continued in the roller coaster fashion he’d become accustomed to. He convinced a member of parliament that his habit of playing pranks on members of the opposite party was making him look like an arse rather than giving him the jovial and friendly reputation he was going for. He found the link his superiors were looking for between the Malaysian ambassador and the human trafficking ring he was suspected of receiving bribes from, leading to the hostile-to-British-interests-ambassador’s public disgrace. He travelled to the US and to Nigeria as part of trade agreement meetings. He and Anthea practised their Mandarin; the Beijing Olympics were three years away, but various diplomatic arrangements would come much sooner. 

He also visited Sherlock, once in the grubby bedsit that smelled of boiled cabbage and formaldehyde (the boiled cabbage was the neighbor's contribution; the formaldehyde was all Sherlock’s fault) that he currently resided in when he bothered to be indoors, and once in an alley where Sherlock insisted he was conducting a stake-out (but actually intended to meet a dealer, Mycroft was sure). He was called to A&E on another occasion; Sherlock had been dashing about in the park with enough cocaine in his system to level a horse, looking for clues to goodness-knows-what-case that existed in his mind, and a concerned citizen had called an ambulance. 

What else could he possibly do? Speaking with Sherlock only made him more stubbornly determined to do the opposite of whatever Mycroft suggested, but he was too sharp to fall for reverse psychology. He’d already cut his access to his trust fund as low as he dared; he feared what Sherlock might do out of desperation if he had no money at all. Several close calls had not woken his brother to the danger he was in, and if the threat of death couldn’t motivate him… 

But...Sherlock had also shown up at four more crime scenes; three of DI Lestrade’s and one being worked by someone else. The first had been a bizarre case of a woman who died of hypothermia in a sauna, of all things, and Sherlock had shown up sober and remained so for several days while the various leads were unravelled. A stretch of nearly two weeks before the next one had him bored, irritable, and experimenting with his 7% solutions again. 

For the second crime scene, he had just happened to be nearing the end of his high by the time he strolled up to the yellow tape; most would not notice, but a properly trained DI certainly would. Nevertheless, he provided some useful deductions and was only obnoxious enough to be called a weirdo by the forensics team, but not quite enough to get himself arrested. 

The third was the one with a different detective; Sherlock’s input was unwelcome and quickly led to another early-morning trip to post bail for Mycroft. 

On the fourth, though, Sherlock turned up high. It was a fairly simple mugging-gone-wrong, but Sherlock’s erratic behaviour led to a screaming match with a forensics tech that nearly turned physical before Lestrade stepped in. He ended up banned from the scene, and Mycroft ended up dragging him to A&E again when he nearly overdosed venting his frustration when he got home. 

Well, so much for the DI asking for his help. Who would bother when Sherlock’s usefulness came with so much chaos?

Or so Mycroft thought, until three days later when Anthea slipped into his office with a DVD. 

“Sir, you should see this. It’s from the feed in Sherlock’s flat.” 

Mycroft sighed. These were rarely good. He planted a new camera or microphone in his brother’s flat as often as he had opportunity. They rarely enjoyed a long period of use before Sherlock found and destroyed them, but allowed for unobtrusive welfare checks so long as they lasted. He generally left the monitoring to the surveillance team that handled the security of many politicians, high-level MI5 officials, and an ever-growing list of persons of interest whether for good or bad. They were very, very good at catching signs of a threat. When they felt the need for him to view a recording personally...well, Not Good didn’t usually begin to cover it.

If his brother were dead or in hospital again, surely Anthea would just tell him. But where else was there to go in between his brother’s recent state and death? His quick mind for analysis immediately supplied various possibilities: a dangerous new acquaintance, an assault that Sherlock had sought to keep hidden, preparations to disappear again into the underworld of London out of Mycroft’s view.

He glanced quickly at her face to see if there were any tells as to the content. Goodness knew she could keep a blank face better than almost anyone he’d ever seen, but she usually didn’t bother if it was just the two of them. 

Her eyes showed no strain of worry, though. No note of pity in her voice. No tightness in the quirk of her lip. She appeared...hopeful. Hopeful? He glanced down at the DVD in his hand. Yes, it bore the number the surveillance team had assigned to Sherlock. 

“Thank you. Please hold my calls until I have reviewed the footage.” He sat the DVD on top of the paperwork he’d been reviewing and picked up his cup of tea. He kept his face carefully neutral, as if it would fool Anthea, until she closed the door behind her. 

He took another sip of tea and focused his breathing before picking up the DVD and loading it into his laptop. Whatever fresh calamity had befallen his brother, becoming emotional himself would not aid the situation. 

The footage opened to a scene of Sherlock flopped on his threadbare sofa, mercifully dressed (which had not always been the case in past footage) with a dressing gown over a t-shirt and track pants. His violin was in its case, but the fingers of his left hand were moving on his chest as if working out the fingering of a complicated passage of music. He hummed slightly. 

Ah, good, sound this time. It was rare to have both working audio _and_ visual. 

Sherlock was startled from his humming by a knock at the door. A decisive, confident knock, sure of its welcome, Mycroft decided, although Sherlock seemed to be surprised by it as he swung his legs to the floor. 

After a quick glance through the peephole, his brother opened the door to allow...ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade to come in. 

He was wearing a tan trench coat that reminded Mycroft of the noir films he so loved. The DI slid out of it and laid it across the back of the lone kitchen chair before running a hand through his hair to scatter the raindrops. 

“Lestrade. What’s the case?” Sherlock kicked his shoes out from under the table and began looking around for his phone. In his movements, Mycroft could read that he wasn’t _quite_ sober, but near enough to the end of his high to be in his right mind. 

“Uh, no case, Sherlock.” 

“Then why are you here?” Sherlock paused over the dresser drawer he was selecting socks from to give Lestrade a look of disgust. 

“Needed to talk to you.” After a quick glance to make sure he wouldn’t be sitting in the remains of one of the experiments he’d been introduced to on a previous visit to the flat, he made himself comfortable on one end of the sofa. 

“If there’s not a case, then what could you possibly...Ah, must be _personal_.” Sherlock made a face of distaste. “If you want to know if your wife is cheating on you, then you can…” 

“My wife is not cheating on me!” 

“Wellll…” 

“She isn’t, and that’s not why I’m here. Christ. Just sit down already, would you?” 

Sherlock made a show of carefully replacing the pair of socks he’d picked up and closing the drawer before he slumped over to the other end of the sofa and sat down with a huff. 

They stared each down for a moment before Lestrade began. 

“Sherlock, it’s obvious you have a talent for detective work. You…” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, probably to give a diatribe on how “talent” was not the precise word to describe his intellectual capabilities and skill set.

“No. No, stop.” Lestrade held up a finger. “Just listen. Your help on the last few cases has been great. You see things right away that take the forensics team hours to come up with, if they ever do. You’re a good resource to have when we get a tricky case. I’d like to continue calling you to consult.” 

Sherlock leaned forward, ready to leap out of his seat into his usual hyperactive pacing. “Well, I…” 

“Nope, not finished.” Sherlock settled back warily. “I’d _like_ to consult you. But I can’t.” 

Sherlock just looked at him for a moment, and Lestrade took the chance to rush on before the tantrum could begin. 

“I can’t have a junkie coming to crime scenes. I know, for you, it’s all about the puzzle. But for _me,_ I need to be able to get these criminals off of the streets where they can’t hurt anyone else. And to do _that_ , I have to be able to make a case that’ll get a conviction in court. Now, I don’t know how much experience you have with the legal system, since you’re usually bailed out before you are put through most of it, but…” 

Sherlock glared at him for suggesting he lacked knowledge. 

“But it’s cut-throat. These lawyers...they’ll use anything and everything to tear apart a case. If they find out a drug addict was handling evidence or supplying information, they’ll rip the prosecution to shreds.” 

“Cocaine only serves to _sharpen_ my focus; even with it, I’m better than your so-called forensics _experts_ …” Sherlock spewed out with venom. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know, buddy. But the thing is, if it can’t be used in court, it doesn’t do me any good. I’m better off with Anderson taking hours to give me something I can use than with you giving it to me in ten minutes and then it all getting thrown out.” 

Sherlock huffed. “I should have realized that my methods were too advanced to be appreciated by…” 

“Oh, stop that. Look, I’m telling you, I _want_ you as a consultant. But I _can’t_. I’ll lose my job if you keep showing up off your tits, not to mention that you’d be arrested every time all the officers you’ve already managed to insult get the chance. _But…_ ”

Sherlock’s face was an odd mix of outrage and hope. 

“If you were _clean_ …”

Sherlock turned his face away. 

“I know, I know, it’s not easy. But if working on crime scenes is what you really want...it’s the only way.”

Sherlock snarled. 

“I can give you some recommendations for rehab centres and addiction counsellors, or I’m sure your family...I know you have a brother who…” 

Sherlock flopped over the arm of the sofa in a sulk at the mention of his brother. Lestrade gave him a look of exasperation usually only earned by cranky three-year-olds, and let silence fall for a minute. He seemed to be thinking. 

“Here’s the deal, Sherlock. Get clean, and stay clean, for six months. If you can do that, I’ll work it out for you to have access to crime scenes. Not _every_ one, but when you are needed. If you show up high, you’ll be arrested, and the six months starts over again.” 

There was only a humph from the other end of the sofa. 

“You have a chance to use that brain you’re so proud of. Don’t waste it.” 

Sherlock sunk further into the cushions and didn’t look up. Lestrade sat in silence for the better part of five minutes before he pulled himself to his feet and put his coat back on, fastening it securely against the windy spring night outside. 

“Think about it, Sherlock. You know where to find me when you’re ready to work.” He crossed to the door but stopped with his hand on the knob. He looked back with the expression of a father looking at a sick child. “And if you need someone to talk to, when it gets hard...you have my number.” 

He gave a little nod and then let himself out. Sherlock never acknowledged his departure, and after a couple of minutes turned to flop face-down. 

The footage automatically fast-forwarded through three hours with barely a twitch from his brother, but slowed down again just past midnight. Sherlock finally raised his head, and then stood. He stumbled over to the bed and pulled out a beaded slipper and a medical kit. 

Mycroft’s heart fell as he watched his brother prepare the syringe with shaking hands. He sat on the edge of the bed staring at it for what felt like an eternity to his older brother. Twice, he resolved himself and aimed the needle at his elbow, only to drop in back into his lap. Finally, in a whirl of action that made Mycroft jump in his chair, he threw the loaded syringe against the wall so hard that it shattered, liquid dripping down in slow rivulets. He kicked the box and slipper back under the bed and threw himself onto the bed, where he remained without moving as the footage came to an end. 

Mycroft sat in the silence of his office for several minutes before he thought to pick up his now-cold tea again. 

_Who is this man? What kind of person goes to that much effort, for a junkie that most would like to avoid at all costs? His career is progressing admirably as it is; he doesn’t need Sherlock for his personal gain. More likely, he would suffer censure for his support of him, and yet he has offered…_

Mycroft’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. From Sherlock, who hadn’t initiated contact with him in years. He thumbed it open. 

Help. -SH

_Received 14:38_

He put the phone down slowly. If he was a religious man, he would offer prayers of thanksgiving. Granted, Sherlock could change his mind by the time he could respond; he’d have him a place in one of the well-reputed rehab facilities that he’d already researched by _tonight._

Mycroft picked up the office phone. “Anthea. Pull the file for Operation U7. Postpone the meeting with IT; I will be out of the office for the rest of the day.”

This Detective Inspector...he would have to keep an eye on him. 


	5. Sally's Call

Sally blinked her eyes groggily. Lights...too bright...turned her head to the side. Better. 

“Sgt. Donovan? Can you hear me?” 

Why was this person yelling at her? Especially when she had such a headache? 

“Can you open your eyes again?” 

She opened her eyes to see Sgt Blakely peering down at her nervously. 

“There you are; just stay still until you get your bearings.” 

Suddenly everything came rushing back in: Alvarez in a shut-down restaurant. Tossed into a freezer. Greg taken away as a hostage. She sat up quickly, wincing as the sudden movement made her head throb. She touched the knot gingerly. 

“Whoa, easy. You’re going to have quite the bump there.” 

“Mm’okay…” The fog was clearing quickly now that she was sitting up. Pushing the pain aside, she glanced around at her fellow captives. Blakely understood and gave a report: 

“I’m okay, other than being handcuffed.” Oh, so that’s why he hadn’t helped her to sit up. “I mean, some bruises, but that’s all. Cooper’s knee is swelling up like a grapefruit, and he probably has a couple of broken fingers and some scrapes. Singh over there probably has a concussion, too, and he’s bleeding pretty good from that gash on his arm. Evans has a broken arm.” 

“And handcuffs for everybody.” 

Blakely nodded earnestly. “They stripped us of weapons, badges, keys, everything.” 

“And Lestrade?”

“Last I saw, they were taking him out the door with them. I haven’t heard a thing since they shut us in here, so I think they’ve left.” 

Sally tried to think without panicking. “We have to get out of here, got to get help.” 

Blakely grunted in agreement. Despite their best efforts, it took what seemed to Sally to be hours, but was probably closer to forty minutes, to escape the freezer. Thankfully, Sally had bobby pins in her hair to tame the flyaways over her temples, and Cooper walked her through how to bend one to use as a tool to pop open his cuffs. She nearly cried with frustration three times, but finally managed to free him. He took her other pin, and together they unshackled the others. Singh and Blakely managed to break off a piece of the metal shelving to use as a crowbar to pry the door, which after much effort and another nasty gash for Singh did eventually work. 

By this point, Sally was nearly sick with worry about Lestrade. He was just her boss, but goodness, they’d worked side by side for nearly eight years now. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye, and it had taken months to regain his trust after the part they played in the investigation into Sherlock that had led to his death. Deep down, she realized he hadn’t really completely forgiven her until Sherlock had come back. Lestrade had taught her everything she knew about police work. And now he was probably dead. 

Singh stayed behind with his partner to await help--Cooper’s knee was too swollen for him to walk--while Sally and the others burst out of the door into the back parking lot of the restaurant. Outside the world went on as normal: cloudy sky, a bus honking, the smell of greasy chips emanating from somewhere down the lane. Fighting back the urge to vomit into the gutter, Sally felt like screaming until someone, anyone, came to help. _Pull it together. You are the police. You are the cool-headed one. Falling apart won’t help him._

“The car!” Evans took off at a trot around the building, and Blakely followed along, Sally following more slowly as she tried to shake off the nausea. Ruefully, she remembered that she’d been knocked out cold for a few minutes there; the nausea was probably just as much from moving so quickly with a concussion as it was from panic. Somehow this thought calmed her and she narrowed her eyes with determination. 

By the time she reached the others at the panda car still parked down the block, Evans was barking a report to dispatch, requesting backup and an ambulance. Sally calculated mentally. Lestrade had been taken about an hour ago, if the officers’ estimation of how long she’d been out was accurate. Assuming he and his captors were in a car, even with afternoon traffic and assuming they were following all traffic laws to avoid attention, they could be nearly anywhere in the city by now and could be well beyond it by the time Scotland Yard could organize a manhunt. 

Breaking away from the men crowding around the car radio, she scanned the street. Several pedestrians were approaching but were glancing from the bedraggled officers to the street, contemplating crossing the street to avoid whatever-was-happening. She rushed towards them so quickly she added yet another bruise to her shin as she stumbled against a parked car. _Damn this concussion throwing her off!_

Scanning her options, she focused on a motherly woman with an enormous handbag and wide eyes at the distressed officers. 

“Please, Ma’am, I need to use your phone! I’m a police officer…” Sally automatically reached for her badge before remembering it wasn’t there. “I’m sorry, I don’t have my badge. I’m a detective; I’m with the officers in uniform there. We were ambushed while making an arrest and our phones and badges were taken. It’s an emergency.”

The woman was startled to be approached in that fashion; her face bounced between concern for the rather disheveled young woman in front of her and a bit of reluctance to hand over her phone without understanding the situation. Fortunately for Sally, Evans turned slightly just at that moment, giving the pedestrians a view of his blood-soaked sleeve. The woman gasped. 

“Oh my! He’s been injured!” She looked slightly dazed. Well, Sally thought, any job where the lady would encounter blood could be ruled out. 

“Yes, ma’am, he has. I need to make a phone call for more help. May I please use your phone? I’ll stay right here with it and give it back just as soon as I’m finished with it.” 

The lady dragged her eyes away from the blood and back to Sally’s face. “Yes, yes, of course, dear...here it is.” 

“Thank you!” Sally grabbed the phone. Not locked, thank goodness. She hit the contacts button without thinking. Wait, no, not her phone. Internet. He has a website; surely the number will be there. _Google_. Shaking hands, still feeling a bit nauseated. There, _The Science of Deduction_. _Hurry._ Scrolling, scrolling, where is it...there, a contact information link. _Faster._ Copy and paste number, dial. 

Ringing, ringing...voice mail. Sherlock’s voice drawling out a message about preferring to text, but to leave a message if the caller lacked the technical competence to manage texting. 

“Sherlock, this is Sally Donovan. Lestrade has been kidnapped from…” 

“This is Luton Street,” the phone-owner added helpfully.

“...Luton Street, in Southwark. Call me back immediately at this number; I’m just borrowing the phone. If you get this later, just get here as quickly as you can.” End call. 

Text. All caps. 

_THIS IS DONOVAN. LESTRADE TAKEN HOSTAGE. CALL ME BACK ON THIS NUMBER IMMEDIATELY. COME TO LUTON ST SOUTHWARK NOW._

Sally took a deep breath. Come on, Sherlock. For once, I’m admitting we need you. Don’t let me down. I wonder if John’s number is on his blog? Probably not. Dial Sherlock again. Ringing…

“Donovan? I just received your text.”

“Sherlock! Thank god! We were ambushed while making an arrest, and Greg was taken as a hostage. They took him with them an hour ago, from Luton Street in Southwark. The other officers and I were handcuffed and left in a freezer; we only just were able to free ourselves to call for help. They’re radioing for backup, but he could be anywhere by now...just…” Sally stopped to breathe as a wave of dizziness washed over her. “Sorry, dizzy, concussion. Please come…”

“On my way.” The phone was muffled as he shouted for John. His voice sounded tinnier as he switched to speakerphone, and there were scuffling noises in the background that Sally assumed meant he was putting on shoes and his coat. “Do you have an address?”

“It’s...a closed restaurant...the sign’s been taken down. No number...oh, there, the number across the street is 1411 Luton.” 

“Excuse me, Miss, but the restaurant was called Peter’s before it closed up.”

Sally nodded her thanks to the lady’s effort at helpfulness. “Did you hear that? The restaurant was Peter’s before.” 

“Noted. Don’t let forensics touch anything; we’re leaving now to get a cab.” Doors slammed in the background. “Which case were you working on?” 

“It’s the Alvarez case...his girlfriend was found strangled in a hotel room…we had a tip this morning about his whereabouts. We came to bring him in for questioning, but he was holed up with several armed men and we were ambushed...”

“Obviously. I have the case file pulled up now.”

“...How did you...you haven’t been involved in this one...Greg’s going to kill you if you’ve hacked the NSY S:drive again...nevermind, just get here as fast as you can.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who's reading along! Your comment, kudos, and tumblr reblogs have been so encouraging!


	6. December 2005-July 2006

_**December 2005-July 2006** _

Early reports seemed to indicate that Sherlock’s bargain with the Detective Inspector was working out rather well; since his release from rehab there had been a few danger nights, and he was smoking rather excessively, but he’d avoided his usual dealers (the few that Mycroft hadn’t managed to have arrested by the suddenly overworked NSY narcotics division), and there had been no overdoses. While he was grateful that thus far Sherlock seemed to be staying clean and that he had managed to present himself at several crime scenes without being arrested again (although only avoiding it thanks to Lestrade’s interference a couple of times; would Sherlock _never_ learn to keep his mouth shut?), he wanted to be sure his brother wasn’t being used and treated solely as a sniffer dog. 

He needed to impress upon the Detective Inspector and his team that Sherlock had important connections and was not to be taken advantage of and establish a precedent that he would be watching. 

Mycroft chose the crime scene at which to make an appearance carefully.

He kept a close eye on the cases Sherlock was being called to assist on, biding his time (and didn’t the villains in comic books make biding their time sound like such an enjoyable period of plotting, scheming, evil laughter, and stroking a spoiled cat while smoking good cigars? The time he was biding was taken up convincing the Spanish ambassador not to cause an international incident and convincing an MP that suing his neighbour over a dispute over two feet on their property line would bring exactly the wrong sort of press attention. _I am a glorified nursery school teacher_ , he thought.). Finally, late one night, an opportunity presented itself: 

Thick, humid weather, nearly storming, clear access to pull up in a chauffeured car, Sherlock on site, the DI in charge. 

Perfect. Lestrade was supervising the collection of evidence from near the road, head cocked as some underling presented him with a report. The CCTV had not lied; the DI was just as attractive in person as he had been on video. His silver hair glinted as it caught the light.

Mycroft took a deep breath and forced his expression into the one that had earned him the reputation as the Iceman. He slid gracefully out of the backseat and stood with perfect posture and his nose slightly in the air. He languidly surveyed the scene before him: body, stabbed, blood spatter would indicate an attacker who was shorter than the victim, Lestrade’s eyes looked dark from here, was it the light or were they really chocolate brown, officer surreptitiously checking his phone is having an affair, the officer guarding the crime scene from nosy onlookers has insomnia, there had been a third person involved in the attack judging by the scuff marks on the pavement, the doors of the building in the background had been repainted within the last three weeks, shame they now had blood smears, the victim worked in a bakery...stop, stop. _I don’t care about the crime scene. Focus._ Mycroft usually had a much better handle on controlling his deductions and the constant onslaught of information than Sherlock. He must be a bit tired tonight. To the credit of his famous control, not a bit of his inner monologue flickered across his features. 

His presence was noted immediately by Sherlock, who proceeded to ignore him passionately, and rather more slowly by the officers. He watched the ripples of glances and nudges make their way through the ranks until finally someone sidled over to Lestrade and muttered to him about the creepy posh bloke (Mycroft was an excellent lip reader) by the road. 

Lestrade’s head popped up from where he had been supervising the photographing of the scuff marks and he narrowed his eyes to get a look at the visitor in the glare. Recognizing the power symbols of the car and the suit and the stance, he sighed and passed the clipboard he’d been holding to a subordinate and strode over. 

“May I help you? _Lack of sir; he’s a bit put out._

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” _No ‘I presume.’ Make it clear I know what’s going on and he doesn’t._

“Yes. And you are?” 

“An interested party. I see that Sherlock Holmes is assisting on this case.”

Greg’s eyes started to roll at the first part but narrowed at Sherlock’s name. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to confirm the names or roles of any of my team without proper identification.” _Good, the DI is protective of his people_. 

“Of course. I can see that you, Detective Inspector, are…”

“Oh, wait, you’re the older brother, aren’t you? I thought your voice was one I’d heard before.” 

_Darn the DI having a better memory than I would have expected. So much for mysterious._

Mycroft nodded almost imperceptibly. “Your memory for voices heard some months in the past is remarkable. Sherlock Holmes is indeed my brother.” He extended a hand rather reluctantly; he in general disliked touching the hands of strangers, but a lot could be gleaned from a person’s manner of handshaking. “Mycroft Holmes.” 

“Greg Lestrade. Although as you know my title I imagine you already knew that.” Greg’s handshake was firm and strong without being aggressive. Mycroft found that he actually wouldn’t mind shaking this hand regularly, or possibly even longer contact with the hand in question...he ended the handshake before it could become awkward. _Stop that train of thought right now. The DI...Lestrade...is married, to a woman._

Happily married or not didn’t make much difference. Mycroft didn’t involve himself with married people; he couldn’t afford any scandal as he rose through the ranks of the intelligence world. Sherlock provided quite enough drama to his life without adding any angry spouses. And he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to observe Lestrade’s behaviour long enough to ascertain whether he was strictly straight or if there might be any possibility there anyhow. He took his attraction and mentally stuffed it into the back of the closet.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance in person. I shan’t keep you from your work for long.” 

Mycroft stayed only long enough to ask a few questions about his brother’s contributions (astounding, really) and interactions with the crime scene technicians (growing hostility, but no immediate cause for concern) and to give the full Iceman I-could-make-you-disappear glare to as many officers as he could manage when Lestrade wasn’t looking before sliding back into the idling black car and gliding away into the night. 

*****

Mycroft made a point to make an appearance at a crime scene every two or three months: just often enough that he would not be taken for granted by the DI, but infrequently enough that Sherlock wouldn’t feel smothered enough to mail overripe body parts to his office (again). 

The second and third Visitation of the All-Powerful Brother Who is Watching You went similarly to the first: Mycroft was posh, controlled, and condescending, and the Detective Inspector was resigned, mildly annoyed, and a bit ill-at-ease. But not terrified. Hmm. Mycroft practised his Iceman facial expressions in front of Anthea, and she assured him they were still as potent as ever. He knew they must be; he’d made the prime minister’s bumbling assistant wet his pants last week. Well, maybe keeping the DI on his toes was enough for now; he could always arrange a nice chat in a darkened parking garage or disused warehouse if things really got desperate. 

It was the fourth Visitation when things went sideways. 

Mycroft was the very definition of a city person, despite his childhood at a country estate. Growing up, he had only spent time out-of-doors when his mother had threatened to withhold dessert if he didn’t spend at least an hour ‘getting fresh air’ or he was forced to chase his adventurous younger sibling. He kept a small cache of books and bug spray hidden in the back of the garden shed for just such occasions. Thus, he usually chose to make his appearances at cases conveniently located on nice, safe concrete. 

But this time, he had been out of the country for three weeks, and hadn’t seen his brother for nearly two months. He had a lighter schedule for a couple of days in case he suffered from jet lag (he never did) before beginning negotiations over a treaty in the Balkans, so upon reaching his office, he called for reports on the current whereabouts of Detective Inspector Lestrade and his brother. Ah, good. Both in the same place. Checking the CCTV footage, he saw a horde of yarders descending on the BBQ area in London Fields, and a taxi driving huffily away after depositing a Sherlock who was straightening his lapels as he tended to do when he had just “won” a verbal sparring match. A park wasn’t ideal, but needs must. 

His driver took him as close to the action as possible, but the crime scene was focused in the middle of the field, a couple of hundred feet from the nearest road. He _could_ send his driver to summon Lestrade to the car, but if he had read the DI well (and he prided himself on reading people well), such a move would end with either the DI refusing to come (knowing that the mysterious Mr Holmes didn’t actually _need_ anything urgent) or coming over in a fury and giving him a piece of his mind, intimidating suit be damned. Ugh, he’d have to walk on the grass. 

As he carefully picked his way across the field towards the crime scene, trying to avoid grass stains on the hems of his expensive trousers, he grumbled to himself. It was quite a warm, sunny afternoon; he hoped he didn’t get overheated. Sweating was definitely not conducive to maintaining his image. 

He stopped beside the hastily strung crime tape and leaned on his umbrella. Schooling his face into a bored expression, he peered over the melee as if he were surveying ducks on a pond. Nothing could shock the imperious Mycroft Holmes. World-weary, jaded, no atrocity could incite a reaction from the Iceman. _What...is that...someone barbecued severed limbs and then stacked them over the grill like a macabre Jenga game? Just...why...Abort! Abort! He’s coming this way! Iceman! Iceman!_

“Mr Holmes. Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Ah, yes. Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Sardonic smile, condescending gaze. “I’ve been travelling for business.” 

“Ah. Well, welcome back then, I suppose?” Lestrade seemed a bit at a loss as to how to make small talk with his visitor and was unsure as to why he was having to bother in the first place. “Here to check up on Sherlock?”

“Just so...my dear brother does require some...supervision.” Keep facial expression haughty, with just a quirk of knowing sympathy. 

“Heh, yeah. He moves quickly, that one. Haven’t been any big cases recently, so I called him in right from the start on this one, give him something to do. And I don’t regret it, if he can figure out the motive behind _this_ mess.” He indicated the puzzle of grilled human drumsticks with a flick of his hand and a quick glance. “Oi! Sherlock! Do _not_ taste that!” Sherlock was poised to lick his fingers after having prodded the burnt flesh, and three techs were gaping at him in horror.

“Okay, well, maybe now I regret it a bit.” He turned back to Mycroft with a chagrined look. 

Mycroft sighed the longsuffering sigh that he felt compelled to make at least once in every encounter with his wayward sibling. “Quite so.” Sherlock was now glaring at Mycroft through the gaps of the Jenga puzzle while pretending to look for evidence on the other side. “Has my brother kept to his part of the agreement to abstain from his...predilections...while assisting on cases?”

“Oh! Yes, he hasn’t shown up high in months now. I think maybe he’s really going to stay clean this time.” 

“I certainly hope for that outcome. I’m sure you can understand how I worry about him.” 

“Of course. I have two sisters myself; I’ve worried enough even about less dangerous issues.” 

Mycroft nodded as if he hadn’t already known that Greg was a middle child from his rather thorough background check. Both siblings were quite well settled now, but his younger sister had been quite the wild partier when she was younger. 

“Well, you picked quite a case to drop in on…” 

“Quite. I admit that from here I’ve not been quite able to deduce the motive behind...that…”

“Yeah, _that_. It rather defies description.” 

“My first thought was an extremely macabre game of Jenga.” 

Lestrade laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that, but I can see it. Actually, and I probably shouldn’t be talking about an ongoing investigation, but, well, we let Sherlock in here, and therefore I don’t think you’ll report me, but we found bits of burnt paper scattered about that seem to prayers to some deity I’ve never heard of, and Sherlock says he can smell traces of wine. My current theory is that’s it’s meant to be an altar of some sort.” 

“Quite right.” Sherlock popped out from behind the human-Jenga-altar and bounded over. “Lestrade, if you are finished entertaining my brother’s morbid curiosity and delusions of grandeur, I’d like to actually _contribute_ to this investigation…,” he trailed off with a look over his shoulder that conveyed how much space Mycroft was currently wasting, and stalked off. 

Greg gave him a longsuffering I-know-but-I’d-better-follow-him look and followed. 

Mycroft should have taken the opportunity to excuse himself and get back to the office, but somehow he didn’t quite want to leave without saying goodbye properly to the DI, and maybe chatting a bit more... _Stop that! Chat about WHAT? Absolutely illogical._ He chastised himself for the inefficiency of just standing around, but didn’t move. _What are you doing? What if he’s busy for a long time? It would be very awkward to stand here staring for ten minutes and then just walk away._

Just as he was shuffling his feet in preparation to make his way back to the car, he felt something crawling just under his ear. Ugh, nature. He swatted without thinking and felt a sharp sting. Oh dear. Rather in denial, he examined his hand to see what it was he had swatted, and then felt along his cheek to see if the stinger was still there. It was, but he managed to dislodge it with the edge of a fingernail (never squeeze it). Now he certainly needed to make a hasty exit. 

Walking as quickly as he dared without drawing attention, he was almost a third of the way back to the car before he was caught. 

“Mr Holmes! Before you go, I wanted to tell…” 

Mycroft instinctively glanced at the speaker and wished he hadn’t. Of course, it would be Lestrade to witness his humiliation. 

“...what happened to your face??” 

“Nothing important; it’ll be fine.” He turned to leave again, but felt a hand on his arm. 

“Hold on just a minute. That’s not nothing. Let me see.” 

“Just a small sting…” Lestrade looked at him unbelievingly, probably because as his cheeks puffed out to busy-chipmunk proportion, his words sounded more like, “Fust a shmall shting.” Mycroft rarely resorted to cursing, but several words crossed his mind. 

“Do you have an allergy to bees? Will you go into anaphylactic shock? I think we have an EpiPen in the first aid kit…” He started looking around wildly for someone or something. “Come over here to the bench.” 

“No shhhk. Fust shwell...in.” Oh dear god, this was not his day. 

Lestrade gave him a look of incomprehension and yelled back at the officers. “Jenny! Go get the first aid kit from the car and bring it here!” Turning back to Mycroft, he continued, “She’s trained in first aid. Nod yes if we need to call an ambulance.” 

Mycroft nodded no vociferously. And then the situation worsened even further. Sherlock had noticed the commotion and strolled over. 

“He’s allergic to bees, yes, but he’s never gone into anaphylactic shock before. Just incredible swelling and hives.” Sherlock was barely keeping the smirk off of his face, and his eyes were bright with enjoyment. Mycroft shot him as strict a look as he could manage in the present circumstances, but didn’t dare make any verbal rejoinder. 

“Oh, yes, thanks, Sherlock. I didn’t even think to call for you; of course, you’d know his allergies.” 

“Always useful to know your enemy’s weaknesses.” 

Lestrade shot him a look but didn’t comment. And of course Sherlock knew about this particular weakness; he’d exploited it freely in childhood. Sherlock had built an outdoor sanctuary for himself in the dilapidated shed just by the edge of the Holmes’ property line. The shed that backed up to the beehives just at the edge of the neighbour’s property line. A large part of his preference for this shed over the larger one in better repair closer to the house was that Mycroft would not be disturbing him out there for fear of the bees, unless it was an absolute emergency, and even then, he’d try yelling from a distance first. 

Mycroft carefully prodded his face. His cheeks were puffing out unevenly, the side with the sting twice as big. His tongue was feeling fuzzy. He must look absolutely ridiculous. 

“Ah, Jenny, thank you. Do you have any training on allergic reactions?” 

“Yes, sir. My cousin has really severe allergies, so I’ve made a point of learning...my, that is some swelling.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes but then grimaced as the action tugged on his swollen skin. 

“His brother said he’s never gone into anaphylactic shock before, just the swelling. What do you think, do we need to get him to hospital?” Lestrade actually sounded a bit worried. 

“Hmm...not unless he has difficulty breathing, although he may want to anyhow to get stronger antihistamines that what’s available over-the-counter.” Lestrade nodded, and she continued. “Sir? Are you still able to speak?”

Mycroft started to spit out “Of course not!”, but it just came out as a pathetic mash, he nodded no, just in case the answer was not readily apparent from the attempt. 

“Are you having any trouble breathing?” Another no.

“How about swallowing?” Mycroft tested a bit of saliva; a bit harder than normal but not so much to be a problem. 

“I’ve got some antihistamines here in the kit if you think you can swallow tablets.” 

Yes, he nodded. 

“But if your throat starts feeling tight _at all_ , or if you have _any_ difficulty breathing, say so _immediately_ and we’ll use the EpiPen. Although, if you’re still breathing after this long I don’t think you’re going to go into shock.” 

Greg rummaged through the trunk of his car and produced a bottle of tepid water, and Jenny handed over the pills. Mycroft wished they weren’t staring at him while he took them, as he had to tip his head back and insert the pills into his mouth rather like a baby bird. The water followed and ran over the corners of his mouth when he poured a little too quickly. He managed to get the pills down while spluttering. 

“Easy...don’t choke yourself.” Lestrade patted his pockets looking for a tissue to offer but came up empty. Jenny passed over a bit of gauze from the kit, which worked well enough to dry his face. 

Sherlock had wandered off after his medical-history announcement, but now reappeared. _Lovely. Why does he have to take THIS moment to act like a concerned relative? He works so hard to avoid me; why can’t he bugger off now?_

Mycroft sat in sulky silence and crossed his arms as Sherlock gave him a once over with just the hint of a smile. He probably saw a goldmine opportunity to rant about anything he liked while Mycroft didn’t have the ability to respond. 

“Brother mine, I have procured a mirror for your viewing pleasure.” He held up a compact, borrowed (hopefully with permission, but who knows when Sherlock is involved) from one of the female crime techs. 

Mycroft had just as soon not know how bad it was, but seated on a bench surrounded by three, well, two people fussing over his health, and Sherlock, who seemed to be enjoying Mycroft being at least mildly entertaining for once, there wasn't really a way to decline without being childish. So, he looked. His eyes widened almost comically at the sight of his lopsided bulging cheeks, mottled red. His nose was puffy as well, and even the earlobe closest to the sting was puffy. All he needed to do to become an exact replica of a puffer fish was the purse his lips a bit more. 

“Grrrp.” 

And that was when he realized that the mirror was not a kindly meant gesture from his _dear_ little brother, but a distraction from the video Sherlock was taking on his phone. 

“SHtttp daaa..” _Shit, stop trying to talk; Sherlock is just smiling more._

“Give us a smile, Mycroft!” Sherlock adopted a sing-songy photographer voice; he might as well have been saying, “Watch the birdie!” 

Mycroft tried to use his eyes as death rays, to no avail. He made a grab for the phone but Sherlock was too fast, hopping from foot to foot. The pomp and circumstance of the Iceman were momentarily forgotten as he chased his brother around the bench and the tree behind it. Sherlock hooted and scattered off back to the crime scene, and Mycroft was in no shape to chase him; his face was already aching from the extra exertion. He flopped back onto the bench in a pout. 

Lestrade had been watching the scene in amazement. Not that Sherlock would be childish--of course he would--but that the prim and proper Mycroft had let it get to him. Mycroft suddenly realized this. _So much for my image. I’ll never be able to intimidate him again._ His pout seemed set to descend into a proper sulk. He needed to escape to the privacy of his car. 

But then, he glanced up and caught the Detective Inspector’s eye. Lestrade’s lips were trembling as he tried to hold back, but the look in his eyes was not malicious. Mycroft generally kept his sense of humour a well-kept secret, but he had to admit if he were watching this from the outside, it was a ridiculous situation. He quirked a smile as best he could and gave a bit of a nod. This was all the permission needed before Lestrade burst out into laughter. 

His laughter was infectious, and Mycroft found himself chuckling along. Lestrade seemed to be pulling himself together, so Mycroft caught his eye again, pursed his lips, and made the puffer-fish face. Lestrade collapsed onto the bench beside him and laughed until tears ran from his eyes. 

“Oh God…” he gasped. “I know… I know an allergic reaction...isn’t funny, but that...that face....” Lestrade sucked in a long breath. 

Mycroft responded by tipping his head to the side and quirking an eyebrow just to see Lestrade smile again. 

“Hooo, boy. Okay, I’m gonna stop now...really.” 

They sat in silence, with Lestrade still grinning, for a couple of minutes. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I took a video of Sherlock last month when we had to pull him out of the Serpentine looking like a bedraggled kitten. He hissed like one, too. Wanna see?” 

Mycroft nodded enthusiastically and Lestrade pulled out his phone. “Here...it is. Just let me open it up….ah, there.” He held out the phone so both could watch. Mycroft felt it was childish of him, but it _did_ make him feel better. 

“I’ll be sure to video any embarrassing moments I can in the future. I figure it’s always good to have some backup for when his ego gets out of hand.” 

A commotion from the crime scene caught his attention. “I really do need to get back over there and make sure they’ve documented everything properly. Are you okay here on the bench? Ah, here’s your water bottle… I’d rather you stay a few more minutes here around people just to make sure the antihistamines are working.” 

This wasn’t strictly necessary, as his driver would be keeping an eye out as well (he’d gotten out of the car at the first sign of trouble and had been leaning against the door watching, in case he needed to intervene), and as he could see him texting from here, had probably also alerted Anthea, but Mycroft nodded yes without thinking and sat back. 

Lestrade patted his shoulder awkwardly. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few.” 

Mycroft sat and watched the proceedings. Lestrade had laughed at the ridiculous situation Mycroft had found himself in, but hadn’t seemed to have lost respect for him. In his day-to-day life of politics and international diplomacy, his iron control and serious demeanour were valued highly, but with this man, he seemed to...almost... think _better_ of Mycroft, somehow, for having seen him lose that control. 

After a few minutes, he could feel his face slowly deflating, although he knew he’d need to stay out of the public eye for the rest of the day. And find some lotion for the blotches on his neck that were beginning to itch. Not wanting to disturb the work further, he caught Lestrade’s attention and waved his goodbye before making his way over to the car. 


	7. The Investigation Begins

Sally was sitting on the back bumper of the ambulance now parked on the side street beside the restaurant, submitting to the poking and prodding of a rather fluttery young paramedic. At least they’d given her a bit of pain medication, although not the good stuff just in case there was any internal bleeding. Not that she would have accepted it, anyhow. She needed her mind clear. 

She heard Sherlock barking out demands before she saw him come around the corner of the building, John right behind him. 

“Donovan! Update!” 

Sally winced; concussion headaches were no joke. “We were ambushed about 1:30. The altercation lasted about ten minutes before Greg was taken away as hostage. Alvarez stated ‘We’ll take this one with us in case we have further trouble.’ and ‘He’s higher up, better leverage.’ The other officers and I were locked into the walk-in freezer; they were handcuffed, and our weapons, badges, and phones were taken. I wasn’t bound but was knocked unconscious for a few minutes. It took about forty minutes for us to free ourselves and break out of the freezer to call for help. So, it’s now been an hour and twenty minutes since Greg was taken.” 

Sherlock, unusually, hadn’t interrupted yet, or maybe Sally had just gotten better at spitting out relevant information concisely. 

She plowed on: “We radioed for backup as soon as we were able to reach a car; I called you immediately. So far, we’ve ordered a trace on our phones, just in case they were stupid and kept them with them and on for long enough to establish which direction they were headed; should be hearing back about that any minute. I expect they’ll turn up in a nearby skip.” 

Sherlock smirked in agreement. 

“DCI Hatley is running the situation room at NSY. We received emails from Interpol and the Texas Bureau of Investigation confirming that Alvarez is the nephew of the head of a Mexican drug cartel; he has the manpower and the means to move quickly. His only known associate here in London is a cousin; a team is in route to locate the cousin in case he makes contact.” Her report given, she slumped and began massaging her temples with her thumbs. 

“Thank you, Donovan. Had Lestrade sustained any injuries?” 

Sally’s hands froze for a moment as she boggled a bit at hearing the words ‘Thank you’ coming out of Sherlock’s mouth. Somehow, the politeness only increased the gnawing of fear in her stomach. Sherlock was worried. He hadn’t even hinted at his usual charade of not knowing Lestrade’s given name. “Uh...um...concussion; he was hit in the head with the butt of a gun hard enough to knock him to his knees. He never lost consciousness, but was dizzy. He seemed to have shaken off the worst of it by the time they left. There was quite a lot of blood on his shirt sleeve, but I didn’t see the injury or if the blood was even his.”

John was nodding seriously to this, and gave her an appraising once-over. “Sally, do you have any injuries other than the concussion?” 

“Not now, John. She’s fine.” Sherlock whirled off to interrogate Blakely. John gave his retreating back a quick glance of reprimand, but Sally didn’t even care at this point. 

“I’m fine, it’s fine. He’s right; I just want him to focus on finding Greg.” She slumped further, drained after the quick burst of adrenaline from the quickfire recounting of events. “Oh, God…”

John ran a practiced hand gently over a large bruise on her forearm. 

“Just cuts and bruises and a pounding headache. Some of the others are worse; maybe a broken knee, stab wound to the arm…” John gave her a compassionate look before checking her pupil dilation, and she let her mask fall for a moment. “I just don’t know what...if he...oh, God...this is…” She took a ragged breath. “I just keep telling myself, he’s a hostage. He’s useful to them. They won’t hurt him as long as he’s useful. But…” her voice cracked. “But...once they don’t need him anymore, they won’t want to leave a witness.” 

John started to speak, probably to make a generic expression of comfort, but was cut off by Sherlock’s abrupt return. 

“She’s right. We need to find them quickly; with the funds and connections a man of Alvarez’s rank in the cartel would have, he may be ready to leave the country within hours. Lestrade’s usefulness will end. John, leave that to the paramedics.” 

He whirled again, pulling out his phone as he went. John gave her a quick glance and then followed, and Sally was left with the fluttering paramedic. 

“John, go ask Evans if any of the men had a tattoo of a dolphin on their hand or forearm...ah, Mycroft.” 

*****

After a morning of meetings in which the entertainment of manipulating the participants had been rendered almost nil by the incompetence and dullness of the attendees, Mycroft was now sipping a cup of tea while reviewing a report from MI5 about proposed security features at Heathrow. 

In his desk drawer, his personal, family-only mobile buzzed. Sherlock. Usually Sherlock communicated in short, barbed texts; he hadn’t properly _called_ in months. 

“Yes, brother mine?” 

“Lestrade’s been abducted. He was taken hostage by…” Mycroft prided himself on being--hell, the nation depended on him being--completely unshockable, but Sherlock’s words after “Lestrade’s been abducted” ran together into a meaningless mush of sound. _Gregory. In danger. Not Gregory. But he can’t leave now, I love him. Love him?_ _Save Gregory._ The sound rushed back in and Mycroft sat back in his chair with a whump. “...cartel. Pull CCTV footage; get your people to track what direction they headed.” 

“Gregory.” 

“What...yes, yes, Lestrade. Focus, Mycroft; now is not the time to indulge in your little crush.” 

_Damn Sherlock._ “I have not lost my focus. Address where he was last seen.” Mycroft hit the button to summon Anthea as Sherlock rattled off the details and hung up without further comment.

Mycroft dropped the personal phone on the desk and reached for another. “Yates. CCTV footage from Southwark, focus on Luton Street, expanding outwards, from 1:30 pm today going forward. Members of the Mexican Banahua cartel took a detective inspector from New Scotland Yard as a hostage, initial point 1411 Luton St. Call in Becket and Banes to assist. Put Vaughan and his team on tracking previous movements of the cartel members.” 

Anthea poked her head into the office.

“With me.” He stood and reached for his umbrella with a grim smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to all have you who have been reading, commenting, and subscribing. :) 
> 
> And just to say, the places mentioned in this story are *mostly* real (you know how it is when writing...I've spent way too long on google maps making sure that the places I'm mentioning are accurate even though the vast majority of my readers would not know the difference). However, Luton Street as I refer to it is not. I named it after the airport. Turns out, there *is* a Luton Street in London, but it's in Marylebone and not in Southwark.


	8. Spring 2007

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a holiday weekend (Martin Luther King, Jr. Day tomorrow, which means a three day weekend, for those of you not in the US), and both yesterday's and today's chapters are fairly short, so I'm going to go ahead and post another chapter today. :)

_**Spring 2007** _

To Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock’s recovery from addiction continued to go fairly well. True, there were setbacks; twice Sherlock had succumbed to temptation and used again, and might have on a few other occasions if Mycroft or Lestrade (more often Lestrade, to be fair) hadn’t been on hand to recognize the warning signs and distract him. Ever the strategist, Mycroft analyzed each event and isolated the triggers behind them, allowing him to predict future danger nights. Lestrade proved more helpful than he had dared hope; it turned out he’d spent five years on the narcotics squad early in his career and had quite a lot of experience interacting with addicts. Not only was he not afraid of Sherlock even when faced with the sort of tantrum that no one over the age of five ought to be able to get away with, he reacted calmly and--to Mycroft’s bemusement--actually seemed to _like_ Sherlock, at least most of the time. The same could not be said for most of the officers who were forced to work with Sherlock, but one sympathetic person was one more than Sherlock usually found, so it hardly seemed to matter. 

Until it did, a bit. Mycroft was there for one of his periodic crime scene interruptions, although since the bee sting fiasco they’d turned more into Visitations of the Older Brother Who is Powerful but Human and Is Just Being Nosy than his originally intended Visitations of the All-Powerful Brother Who is Watching You, when he overheard a bit of a conversation. 

“Oi, Freak, your babysitter’s here to check up on you again.” 

Sherlock stiffened slightly but pretended he had not heard. 

“What, do you hang out at crime scenes for community service? He your probation officer?” 

“If this is his community service, somebody messed up. He gets off on this stuff.” 

“My guess is that they’re keeping an eye on him because they haven’t been able to catch him at murdering anyone _yet_ , but it’s only a matter of time.” 

“Sergeant Finney. Your understanding of the criminal mind is astounding. You know that I will crack at any time, and yet you failed to notice that this man,” he indicated the corpse sprawled at their feet, “is a serial rapist, and that the puncture wound in his neck is not from a “large nail” as you so helpfully suggested, but a stiletto heel. This man was killed by someone acting in self-defence. Perhaps you would have been able to focus on your job if you weren’t so distracted by worrying about how to tell your wife about the STD you recently acquired without her reaching the obvious conclusion that you cheated on her.” 

Finney’s face turned purple, and Sergeant Donovan looked torn between taking his side against the Freak and edging away just in case whatever he had was contagious in others ways than sexual. 

“Alright! What do you have for me?” Lestrade popped out of the shop where he’d been taking a statement from the night clerk who’d called the police after hearing screams in the alley. Pulling on his latex gloves with a snap, he seemed quite chipper for half eleven in a damp alley. 

Finney mumbled some excuse about being needed elsewhere and stalked off still grumbling to himself. Donovan just folded her arms. “Freak’s got a guess, of course.” 

“I never guess, I…”

“Oi!” Lestrade shot Donovan as disapproving glare. “Now, Sherlock, what did you find?” 

As Sherlock launched into his deductions, Mycroft stayed in the shadows by the car. At least it seemed Lestrade was unaware of the worst of the comments from his officers, and he really couldn’t blame the man for not being able to stop the names altogether; it was too much to expect people with such lesser minds to understand Sherlock. If only his brother could learn to keep at least _some_ of his deductions to himself…

Mycroft sighed when he realized that during his musings Sherlock had finished his deductions. Lestrade was now looking over Donovan’s shoulder as she made notes about the evidence, and Sherlock was attempting to make Mycroft disappear by glaring ferociously. Of course, as much as Sherlock squawked about how little Mycroft’s opinion mattered to him, his pride was a bit wounded from his elder brother witnessing the exchange. 

Mycroft made a mental note to tell Anthea to have the office mail screened more carefully than usual for the next week. 

If he was honest with himself, there really was no need to come to crime scenes on a regular basis anymore. Sherlock had been clean now for over a year, and Lestrade had his number if he saw a problem arising. He had managed to install a new camera in his brother’s flat again, and observing his brother when he was out of the public eye was a better indication of his true state. Obviously it wasn’t helping Sherlock’s reputation with the yarders. While he did like to see his brother in person, their relationship might benefit from less personal contact for the time being. But…he was strangely reluctant to give up the habit. 

The answer popped into his mind suddenly enough that he coughed as an excuse to turn his head in case any micro expressions might cross his face, as Sherlock was still shooting him malevolent looks whenever Lestrade’s back was turned and he’d probably blab out the revelation right there. It was Lestrade himself he wanted to see. He had daily reports from surveillance on his brother, but the Detective Inspector he only watched when he was looking for a crime scene to visit. After the initial background checks, there had been no need to, if he wasn’t with Sherlock at the moment. He _liked_ seeing the attractive DI, and somehow his conversation, which should have been tedious, was...amusing, somehow. 

Before Mycroft had quite made up his mind what his course of action should be, the DI in question reached a point in the investigation in which he could step away for a moment. 

“Mr. Holmes. How are you this fine evening?” Mycroft restrained himself from rolling his eyes. It was chilly and would begin drizzling again in approximately seven minutes. 

“I’m quite well, thank you. And yourself, Detective Inspector?”

“Fine, fine...as you can see, Sherlock’s a bit snippy tonight, but he’s given us some good leads.” 

“I am pleased that he is able to make himself useful.” 

“That he is...well, when he wants to be. Now last week, I called him about this suicide down in…” 

While he rattled off a story of Sherlock being a prat, Mycroft formulated a plan to stay in contact with the DI without inciting further rebellion from his brother. 

...the grandmother screamed at him that he was a twat, which he was, but at least he found the missing money.” 

“Detective Inspector...due to exigencies arising from my position, it has become necessary for me to stay abreast of my brother’s work in a more discreet manner.” After giving a moment for his conversational partner to catch up with that sentence, he continued, “I feel it no longer prudent to make such frequent appearances at crime scenes, but I am sure you can understand that my brother’s well-being is of the greatest concern to me, and I value your input.” 

Lestrade looked pleased that his opinion was appreciated. “Of course; I’m glad to help…” 

“Would you be amenable to meeting with me at a neutral location occasionally to discuss my brother’s ongoing recovery and interactions with the police force?” 

“Um, sure...a neutral location?” 

“Over coffee, for example.” 

“Oh! Yes, yes, of course. Case permitting, of course. You have my number.” Lestrade was surprised and a bit...flustered. _Why would he be flustered?_ “Just let me know when you need to meet and we’ll see if we can work something out.” 

“Thank you for your cooperation, Detective Inspector. Now, I must be off. Good day.” _Good DAY? It’s nearly midnight. Why do I slip up in such silly ways around him??_

“Oh, it’s no problem...yeah, um...g’night.” 

With that, Mycroft nodded and glided smoothly into his car without a backwards glance. 

Once in the car, behind tinted windows, he let the confident-high-ranking-government-official expression fall of his face. What had he been _thinking?_ _Coffee??_ He hadn’t made a plan this bad since the Helsinki incident. An update on Sherlock’s current state wouldn’t take long enough to finish a coffee, and then they’d just be sitting there in awkward silence or making...ugh...small talk. And the DI had been a bit flustered. Belatedly, Mycroft realized that “Let’s meet for coffee” was an extremely common way to ask for a date. Did Lestrade think he was _flirting_ with him? He was both straight and married; he’d be making excuses to avoid Mycroft (as if anyone who the British Government wished to see could actually avoid him) in no time if he thought he was _interested._

*****

As it turned out, Mycroft worried in vain. When Lestrade walked in to their agreed meeting place a month later, he had an amused smile at the unnecessary poshness of the place-- “Could’ve just met at Starbucks if you were going for discreet.” --and betrayed no discomfort at being seen at a table with the supercilious man in a three-piece suit. He even accepted the offer of a slice of cheesecake along with his coffee. 

The worry over small talk was also unwarranted: over the following meetings, Mycroft discovered that Lestrade was more well-read in history than most, was surprisingly knowledgeable about wine, though preferring beer (turns out the French surname hadn’t been long in England; he still had relatives who owned vineyards near Aignan), and had quite a dark sense of humor. 

And he had owned a motorcycle and leather jacket in his early twenties. Leather... _NO. No thinking about leather._

Meet-ups over coffee eventually turned into dinner every couple of months, and life went on.


	9. The Van

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I *am* posting for the third day in a row! Actually, I'm posting tomorrow's (Tuesday's) chapter early, as the next couple of days I'm working eleven hours a day and it will be crazy. I probably won't want to do anything involving brainpower by the time I get home. I'm off Thursday, though, and plan to post again then.

Greg put on a stoic expression in response to the bit of panic he saw in Sally’s eyes, but his heart was pounding as he was led, bound with his own handcuffs, out of the restaurant. His head was throbbing, but he had regained his ability to think clearly, so far as he could tell. 

As soon as he stepped outside, he took advantage of his captors’ attention being momentarily distracted checking to be sure their way forward was free of witnesses. He’d seen his share of kidnappings in his years on the force, and he knew that the best odds were to fight rather than be taken to a remote location. He couldn’t do much fighting, but if he could just get to the street, either they would let him go to avoid being seen dragging a kicking and screaming man off the road, or, even if they didn’t let him go, if he struggled enough, surely someone would call the police and he could have hope that someone was looking for him, at least. 

Twisting sharply, he wrenched himself free of his guard’s grip and darted right. The guard made a surprised grunt. Greg almost stumbled but kept going. _Just keep moving, just keep moving, faster…_ But a handcuffed man is no match for three unbound thugs, even if he suspected he did have the advantage of higher intelligence. He only made it about ten feet before he was slammed against the brick wall of the restaurant. 

“Hey! Where do you think _you’re_ going?” sneered the man whose beefy hand was pinning Greg to the wall. He was jerked around so fast he was nearly thrown to his knees. “You try something like that again, we’ll start leaving a trail of fingers and ears and eyeballs.”

“Yeah, we need you alive, not necessarily all in one piece,” another helpfully added.

Greg took a deep breath and kept his expression neutral as he was herded, with tighter grips this time, toward the parked van in the alley. For his trouble, he’d gotten a new hole in his shirt, scrapes up his arm and cheek from the rough bricks, and undoubtedly another collection of bruises all up his right side. 

Unfortunately for him, the situation remained witness-free as he was shoved roughly into the back of the white van with a fading logo for Dawn’s Dry Cleaning on the side. At least there was a logo; if somehow word could get to Mycroft surely his CCTV-wielding minions would be able to follow it. At least it gave him a shred of hope to cling to as he was squashed into the corner behind the driver’s seat as the rest of the crew piled in. The only seats were the driver and front passenger seats; the rear was completely bare except for a padlocked toolbox behind the passenger seat. _Probably full of guns_ , Greg thought to himself. _Just lovely._

Within a couple of minutes, the rest of the crew that had stayed behind in the restaurant when he was drug out had joined them, one of them carrying a large bag. He didn’t see any further fresh blood on any of them; hopefully they’d left the other officers locked in but without further harm. The one who’d had hold of Sally seemed to be moving a bit gingerly, and the guy carrying the bag was smirking at him. _Ah, he underestimated Sally. Good for her. I hope he didn’t hurt her in retaliation, though._

Sitting on the bare metal floor of the van was certainly uncomfortable, especially as each bump in the road as they pulled out onto the street seemed to jar one bruise or another, but the heavily tattooed men sharing the space with him seemed perfectly content with their less-than-luxurious mode of transport. He tried to follow their progress through the city: _pulling out onto Wickham Street…one…two…three intersections. Turning onto Queen Anne Street…moving faster, hard to count intersections, must be going through some without slowing down…left onto Porter, or is it Lewis? Damn. Where is Sherlock’s mind palace map when you need it? To think he used it last week to harangue me about how my inefficient choice of parking caused a five-minute delay in his access to the crime scene. What a waste. …You think of the weirdest things in situations like this._ His position on the floor gave him only brief glances of bits of buildings going by through the passenger window. He surreptitiously tried to raise himself up for a better view but was immediately glared back into examining the pulled threads on the back of the seat. 

Alvarez fished around in the glove box and found a takeaway bag. 

“Take the batteries out of all the phones and give them here.” The large bag from the restaurant was unzipped, and Greg saw that it contained his and the other officers’ phones, warrant cards, and a couple of pairs of handcuffs, as well as his own gun. Underneath were plastic-covered packages that Greg had unfortunately seen many times. _Well, add drug dealing to domestic violence for the court case_. The phones were duly disabled and dumped into the takeaway bag. At the next traffic light, Alvarez hopped out and dropped it into a skip. 

Somewhere in the northern (if Greg’s internal compass was working at all) suburbs of London, the van pulled into a parking garage. 

“Boss?” 

Alvarez looked down at his phone. “2nd level. Turn there...no, you idiot!”

“That was the ramp? Coulda had a sign or somethin’.”

“It was bright yellow! Just...just go around. I swear, if you can’t drive any better than...well, your next job can be taking Tia Rosita to the casino.” A couple of the guys in the back sniggered.

“Aww, lay off, Armando. We’re just on this joy ride in the first place cause you had to lose it on that bitch.” 

Alvarez shot him a withering glare and glanced nervously back at Greg. Well. If Alvarez hadn’t planned on killing him already, he certainly would be thinking it _now._

“Shut _up_ ,” he hissed. 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, man.” 

The van made the circle of the first level. “There’s the ramp. If you miss it again, I swear…” 

The driver reacted by jerking the van onto the ramp going a little too fast. Greg and everyone else on his side were slung back. Greg saw stars as his much-abused head bounced off the side of the van. 

“Hey, man!” 

“Come on, Raul!” 

At least a couple of his captors were now rubbing their heads, too. Silver linings and all that. 

The driver just scowled. 

“Over there.” Alvarez picked up his phone as he pointed. Everyone else listened to his side of the phone call in silence.

“You take care of the cameras?

“Yeah, yeah...heard anything from Eddie?” 

“I don’t care, just, away. South, make ‘em think we were heading for a boat or something?”

“I dunno, just make up something.” 

When the van stopped, Alvarez scanned the area from his seat, and after a moment seemed satisfied and hopped out. The back doors of the van opened from the outside, and Greg was drug along as everyone piled out, trying to get his feet under him. Another van, unmarked this time, was ready for them. In the ten steps between the two, he tried to find the CCTV camera, just in case the person on the phone had been lying about taking care of the camera. He got only a quick glance at it. Would it be enough or facial recognition, if it was even on? He scuffed his feet as much as possible; Sherlock had deduced a clue from lesser things before. 

“Move it!” He was shoved into his place behind the driver’s seat in the new van. At least this one had carpeting. 

As they travelled on, he tried to keep up at least with the general direction they were heading, if not the specific roads, but the further they went, the less confidence he had in his estimations. They were turning less and going faster, so they must be out of the city centre by now. His head was throbbing, and the effects of the concussion augmented by the adrenaline drop now that he was sitting still were making him sleepy, but he fought to stay awake. He’d always heard that you shouldn’t sleep right after a concussion, or if you did, you should be woken frequently. _Not that it would matter a great deal if I did have a brain injury; I’m unlikely to live long enough to know it anyhow._ Besides, it didn’t seem quite prudent to close his eyes when surrounded by enemies. 

His struggle to stay awake (which he was close to losing) did not last long. As the van picked up speed on what felt like an entrance ramp, Alvarez turned from his spot in the passenger seat. “Yeah, alright, guys.” 

His band of merry men in the back burst into a loud squabble in Spanish, which Greg understood just enough of to understand was about the rivalry of some sports teams. _Rather hard to misunderstand ‘fútbol.’ I guess they were told to be quiet until we got on the motorway. Makes sense, these louts are so obnoxiously loud that the van would have gotten a lot of weird looks from pedestrians if they’d been making this much racket in town. At least I’m awake now._

It must have been over an hour, maybe two, before they stopped again, giving Greg plenty of time to think. 

_I always thought that if I was ever attacked in some way, I’d try to leave as much evidence as possible, so at least Sherlock would solve my murder. I might’ve left a smear of blood on that brick wall, but that’s not going to tell him anything he wouldn’t already know by the time he saw it. Maybe there’ll be some chance, whenever we stop._

_I wonder if Donovan and the others have been rescued yet? Surely someone would have been sent to check on them when they didn’t report back after a reasonable amount of time to make the arrest._

He thought about his parents, and how they would react to the shock if he didn’t make it back. He thought about his sisters. He’d miss his niece’s graduation next June. He’d miss taking his younger nephew to his first Premier League game as he had with his older nephew. He also thought about Mycroft. 

_I wish…_ The Halloween party the previous Saturday night popped into his mind. The way Mycroft had looked at him...sure, he’d come to enjoy the man’s company over the years, had come to consider him a close friend. It had dawned on him one night during a bit of navel gazing at two a.m. when he couldn’t sleep that he had gotten rather more...attached...to his meetings with Mycroft than was quite normal for mates. He didn’t change plans to be free to have dinner with other mates. With other mates, he didn’t feel that little thrill of anticipation that he did when the notification popped up that he had a text from Mycroft. 

_I wish I..._ Well, sure, the man was attractive, if you were into that style. He wasn’t like the boys Greg had messed around with in uni, before he’d met his now-ex-wife and his bisexuality had seemed irrelevant for many years. _It’s certainly relevant now_. Back then, they’d been lads much like him; shagging off the adrenaline after a football game, going back to someone’s flat to have some fun after the pub cut them off, wearing jeans and trainers for a date at the pizza place within walking distance. But Mycroft...well, Greg wasn’t a lad anymore. He had come to appreciate the sight of a well-dressed man. Now, he wouldn’t be opposed to finding out what Mycroft looked like in jeans, but...the tailored trousers, the glimpse of braces if he took his suit coat off, the cufflinks...and the way his hair had a bit of ginger in it when the light hit it just right, and the way his fringe curled on his forehead when he hadn’t had a haircut in a while... Something was alluring about the confidence and carefully wielded power that Mycroft projected in public, but even more so the moments when they were having coffee and he relaxed enough to laugh and make witty little observations and go off on a ramble about something fascinating he’d been reading about. 

_I wish I had known...._ It had...it had occurred to him that...well, he didn’t really think…well. His brain hadn’t processed completely the exact nature of the gradual shift in his emotional attachment to his long-time friend; it had been more of a fuzzy notion, something quietly pecking away at the border between his subconscious and conscious thought. But at the party...the lens had been twisted and the picture came into sparkling clarity. Love. _I’m falling in love with him. And the way he was looking at me, the expression he couldn’t quite hide fast enough when I looked at him...he realized it, too._

 _I wish I hadn’t been a coward_. _I should have said...something, should’ve kissed him goodnight. Hell, I should have just grabbed him and snogged him right there over the pumpkin punch. I...he asked me to dinner on Friday; I assumed we’d talk then. That we had time. But now...I may never see him again. Will it make it easier for him, when I’m dead, that we weren’t...that? Or will he regret not knowing what might have happened?_

Greg’s head throbbed as the cacophony of voices swirled around him (something about the talents of someone called Gloria, and from the leers on their faces, probably not her intellectual talents. Greg was actually happy to only understand very basic Spanish at this point.) He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the prick of tears as he thought about Mycroft. He’d been thinking of him constantly since the party, anyhow, but right at this moment, he missed him so badly his stomach hurt. 

_Get it together! Don’t fall apart now!_ Getting emotional in front of this crowd was unlikely to help his situation. He needed to think. _I’m not dead yet. And two of my closest friends are a great detective and the wizard-behind-the-machine. If anyone was ever going to be rescued from something like this...well, I’ve got better odds than most. I just need to stay alive long enough for them to figure it out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your response to this fic has been incredible. Thank you again to all of you who are reading! I hope everyone has a great week!


	10. February 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we finally arrive in the timeline of canon...

_**February 2010** _

“Sooo...Sherlock’s got a new flatmate,” Greg started as soon as the waitress had moved out of earshot with their menus. 

“So it would seem. Dr Watson.” 

“Have you met him, other than the two seconds before they scarpered off from the crime scene the other night?”

“You..could say that we’ve met.”

“So, you have or you haven’t? Or have you just spied on him with your creepy CCTV tricks?”

“Well...We have met in person, but I didn’t take the opportunity to _properly_ introduce myself.” 

“Mycroft…” Greg said with the stern voice of a parent to an out-of-line child. “ _What_ did you do?” 

“I arranged a meeting in a neutral environment.” 

“You mean you kidnapped him and took him somewhere weird.” 

“Well, it’s not _precisely_ kidnapping if he entered the vehicle willingly.” 

“Willingly under duress.” 

“If one chooses to see it that way.” 

Greg just rolled his eyes. “So, you ‘met’. And yes, you heard air quotes.” 

“Such deplorable things. The state of discourse in this...” 

“Stop changing the subject; I know when you’re trying to weasel.” 

“Fine, fine.” Mycroft took a sip of his wine. “It’s sad to say of my own flesh and blood, but I find myself unable to trust that someone would choose to cohabit with my brother solely based upon his merits as a flatmate. His past attempts have ended with either the other party departing in horror within a week, or have been drug addicts who invariably tried to pawn his belongings at some point. And even they ran in horror after their high wore off and they realized the dead muskrat wasn’t a hallucination.”

“True...I remember that bloke Pete, think he lasted about thirty hours. I wonder how long that rash took to go away?” Greg reminisced a bit fondly. “So, you threatened him?”

“No, actually. My intent was to first ascertain if he was as brave as his army record indicated. The second was to see if the doctor was the type of man who could be bought. You understand, I’m sure, Detective Inspector, that Sherlock attracts a significant amount of negative attention. Betrayal by a flatmate, granted such close access to him, could expose him to an array of malicious retributions from those who do not wish him well.” 

“And you explored that point how, exactly?”

“By offering him money to spy on Sherlock. Nothing dangerous, just his normal comings and goings.” 

“Devious. I trust, since he’s still showing up at my crime scenes, that he passed the test?” 

“Quite. So very loyal, so very quickly... I was also pleased to learn that the man operates best under pressure, and a significant portion of his diagnosed PTSD is craving the adrenaline rush that living in an active war zone provided to him. A doctor and a soldier with an adrenaline addiction. This could be quite an interesting relationship.” 

“That it is...so far, I’m inclined to think it’s _good_ interesting...but we’ll see.” Lestrade paused as the waitress stopped by with their shared appetizer, a plate of artfully arranged bruschetta. 

Mycroft deftly appropriated a piece of bruschetta onto his plate without dislodging nary a tomato and looked thoughtful. “Yes...I’ve not seen my brother include someone in his work in this way before. It could be the making of him, to have steady companionship and assistance.”

“But you still sound a bit wary.” 

“It could also make him worse than ever, should this foray into human interaction go poorly.”

“I suppose you heard about the drugs bust I did when he ran off with evidence?” 

“It was reported to me, yes. I assume from the dearth of calls requesting that I retrieve him from a cell that nothing illicit was produced?”

“Nah, though I wasn’t looking that hard. My sergeant found a bowl of eyeballs he was experimenting on, though. Wish I’d had my phone ready to take a picture of her face.” 

Mycroft gave his standard why-wasn’t-I-an-only-child sigh. 

Greg took a piece of bruschetta for himself, sadly noting that he had lost three precarious cubes of tomato in the process. 

“Sherlock will make me regret it, somehow, I’m sure. But I think it might have been worth it just to watch the two of them together. Dr Watson was completely shocked to find out about Sherlock’s past with the drugs. I felt bad at first for outing him like that, but after thinking about it, I’m glad I did. Best for Dr Watson to know from the start, so if it’s going to drive him off he can go now. Better than waiting for them to get comfortable and then him finding out, deciding it’s something he can’t live with and leaving.”

“Yes, I believe you may be right. If _that_ revelation hasn’t caused the doctor to reevaluate his choice of flatmate...” 

“Yeah, and Sherlock actually seemed to _listen_ to him. Like he actually cares about his opinion. It was the oddest thing to see Sherlock backtracking when he realized he’d stuck his foot in it.”

“That _is_ a departure from his modus operandi.” 

“That it is. My team can hardly focus on their jobs for goggling over Sherlock having a friend.” 

“Quite.” 

“Of course, they’re speculating on something more than friendship…”

“As far as I’ve been able to glean from my conversation with Sherlock…”

“And surveillance,” Greg interrupted with a smile. 

Mycroft sighed and continued. “...and surveillance, yes. I have not been made aware of any forays into...warmer relations...between them. In complete honesty, I am rather surprised that my brother has not squashed even this level of acquaintanceship with the doctor. Although…” he drifted off. 

“Although…?” Greg prompted. “I don’t know for certain if either of them is even attracted to other men--or, well, in your brother’s case, I’m not entirely sure whether he’s attracted to mere mortals at all--but I just see a spark there. Call it intuition…”

“Hmmm, yes...I suppose it’s a possibility. My brother, however, is currently focused almost entirely on his work, and has little experience navigating successful relationships, romantic or otherwise. His experiences in life have taught him--quite correctly--not to trust too quickly.” 

“So you don’t think they’re shagging?”

Mycroft made a face of mild disgust. “I’d really prefer not to think of Sherlock and, as you _so_ delicately phrased it, ‘shagging’ in the same sentence, or even in the same paragraph.”

“That’s not a no.”

“No...I don’t think they are at present physically intimate. However, I do not deny that such an eventuality has occurred to me...I also am not resolved as to whether it is a desirable outcome or not; it remains to be seen whether the doctor will maintain his early loyalty.” 

“Want to place a bet on it?” 

“I beg your pardon?”

“A bet. I bet that they will eventually become, as you _so_ pretentiously phrased it, ‘physically intimate’, and you can bet that they won’t. Or if you don’t want to bet against it, I could bet they’ll either announce it or be discovered in an even month, and you can take odd months…”

Mycroft just looked at him for a few seconds. Greg began to wonder if he had overstepped. After all, they weren’t really _matey_ with each other, and Mycroft was a private person. They’d never really talked about sex, whether their own experiences or someone else’s. They met to discuss Sherlock and then chatted over the drinks or food they’d ordered while they lasted; maybe he was reading a deeper, or at least a different type, of friendship into their interactions than Mycroft was. Did Mycroft still think of him as more of a professional contact? The thought that his supercilious companion didn’t look forward to their talks as he did hurt a bit. _Oh, god, I’ve offended him by joking about his brother’s love life_ … "We don’t..."

“I’ll take the odd months.”

“...have to, if you think it’s silly. Wait, you will?”

“Yes. What are the stakes?”

“I dunno...nothing too major; it’s just a silly bet. Loser buys dinner or something of the sort? Bragging rights?”

“Hmm...acceptable.” 

“Or...slightly more of a challenge. Loser has to _cook_ dinner, no microwaves allowed.” 

“Agreed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. my. goodness. this. chapter. I wrote it months ago (I've been working on this off and on for a while, writing another chapter whenever the muse struck), and it was fine. I should have just read it through for typos and posted it when I intended to, hours ago. But nooo... I thought of a little scene that I'd thought about previously that would fit quite well in this chapter. It really seemed like I'd written it out already, but I couldn't find it, so concluded I must have just thought about it. So, I edited this to add in that scene. I was almost finished when I happened to be checking a later chapter for something else and found that I HAD written that scene after all. I couldn't move it from that chapter without a major rewrite. SO. I re-edited it back out. But I liked some of the new lines I'd written, so edited it again to work them in. 
> 
> So, here it is. Finally. Still not perfect, but it's 2 am and I have to sleep. (Don't feel too badly for me; it only took *hours* due to my frequent wanderings off to tumblr or to chat instead of staying on task.) 
> 
> Next chapter to come on Saturday. :)


	11. Situation Room

Anthea knew Mycroft better than anyone outside of his family. After all, they’d worked together on a daily basis for the better part of fifteen years, and some of their shared experiences back in the early years when legwork featured more frequently in their schedule had been the sort to build a brothers-in-arms comradery. And so it was the look she gave him as they waited for the lift down to the IT Batcave (Mycroft had sent out several sternly-worded memos over the years about the use of that infantile nickname for the department, and had been thoroughly ignored) that nearly brought him to his knees. 

He had explained what he knew so far of the kidnapping as they walked. His voice had not shaken and he had relayed only objective facts. But when they stopped, she looked him in the eye with an expression of worry and empathetic fear. She had seen him lead meetings with hundreds of lives at stake. She had seen him manipulate heads of state. She had seen him withstand torture, once. And now she was looking at him as if this was what could break him.

Why were the lights fuzzy?

“Breathe.”

Oh, yes, he wasn’t doing that. He took a gasp. 

“Okay. Slow down, don’t try to catch up all at once.” He was heading towards hyperventilating now. Anthea pushed the emergency stop button and the lift shuddered to a stop between floors. “Alright. No one but me here, no one to hide from. Let’s take a moment.”

Mycroft rubbed his hands over his face and focused on breathing normally. 

“There you go. Just keep breathing. We are going to get to work and find him. You know the resources we have, and we’re going to use them all.”

Mycroft nodded weakly and leaned back against the wall. Breathe in. Breathe out. _Gregory’s laughter when he told that joke about the squirrel. Gregory’s exhausted but triumphant face when he’d worked thirty-six hours straight to stop a killer just in time to save a twelve-year-old girl. Gregory proudly wearing that hideous tie with the shamrocks every St. Patrick’s Day, because his nephew had picked it out for him himself. Gregory with his leather jacket and cheeky grin in that old photo._

 _Please, please don’t be dead. Please, please give me time._ Mycroft had never been the praying type, but he found himself begging anyone and anything that might be listening. 

He closed his eyes and straightened his shoulders and focused his mind. Just get to work; don’t think about what-ifs. 

“Ready?” Anthea met his eyes and he nodded sharply. She punched the button again and the lift finished its journey. 

*****

Half an hour later, the operations room where Agents Beckett and Banes were reviewing CCTV feeds on a wall of monitors had become a full-fledged situation room. Mycroft was on the phone with John, who was passing along the intelligence on the cartel members and their habits and daily activities that Sherlock had deduced from evidence left behind at the scene. Agent Garrett was on a video call with a contact at Scotland Yard; this was not the time to get into a pissing contest between agencies so she and her contact were sharing any information found at either end (more giving than taking at the moment, unfortunately; Mycroft's resources were quickly outstripping the Yard’s.) Agent Yates was reviewing footage from near the restaurant from the last week, posting photos of suspected members of Alvarez’s gang on another monitor on the side wall. Anthea sat at the large table in the centre of the room, compiling all the information into a massive file as she received it. 

“...so, that’s all he’s found here. The restaurant has been a base for a fairly small drug-dealing operation for six to eight weeks, but just as a storage and preparation facility until a week ago, when Alvarez holed up here after the murder. They had been expecting a new shipment when Lestrade and the others arrived; that was the only reason so many of them were all there at the time.” 

“And the drugs were not located at the scene?”

“No. But the officers said that the cartel members took a couple of duffel bags with them when they went, and Sherlock said that the trace evidence in the kitchen shows that they weren’t packaging large amounts at a time, so...hold on.” 

Mycroft hummed his agreement and watched the white van turn a corner on Beckett’s monitor. 

“Sir?” Agent Garrett looked up from her video feed from the situation room at Scotland Yard. “NSY officers located the phones taken from Lestrade and the others. Batteries removed, dumped in a takeaway sack in a bin at the intersection of Whitechapel and Cambridge Heath, just as Beckett suspected from the CCTV.” 

Mycroft nodded. 

“...Mycroft? Sorry about that. I assume you got the message that they found the phones.” John’s voice returned over the phone at his ear. 

“Yes, the report just came through. Does Sherlock have a plan for where he’s heading next?” 

“Got a couple of leads on where a couple of the men were living, and the place where they bought the van...he’s got the word out with the homeless network for more information on who these guys were associated with and where they were selling, but he thinks it likely that Alvarez will be trying to get out of London, probably out of the country, as soon as possible.” 

“We are, of course, monitoring airports and ports.” 

“Yeah, good. He said we’ll check out the places they lived and talk to anyone we can find that knows them, see if we can get some leads, but I think he’s hoping that you’ll come through with something better before we do that.” 

“Quite. We’re still tracking the van on CCTV feeds; we’ve tracked it to near Victoria Park…”

“Sir!”

“Hold, John. Beckett?”

“I’ve got the van going into the Stratford International Car Park, by the Olympic Park. I’m trying to pull up the video feed from inside the structure, but the cameras seem to have been disabled.”

Mycroft nodded. “John? Stratford Inter…”

“Oi, berk! You could’ve just…” John wasn’t listening. 

“Brother. What do you have?” Mycroft passed on the opportunity to chide Sherlock on his manners. 

“We have the van entering the Stratford International Car Park, but no surveillance inside. Still checking for footage of the van exiting.” Mycroft paused; Banes was waving for attention. “Sherlock, I’m placing you on speaker.” He nodded for the agent to speak. 

“Sir, the cameras on the north exit were blocked by construction equipment. No sign of the van leaving by any of the other exits up to this point.” 

“Did you…” 

“Yes, yes, I heard it. We’ll head there now.”

“I’ll arrange for backup. Please do…” Click. 

Mycroft sighed. Agent Garrett was already passing on the information to NSY so that armed officers would be on site by the time Sherlock arrived. Beckett and Banes had already moved on to scanning other video feeds from nearby intersections in case the van had left by the north exit. 

He allowed himself to close his eyes just for a moment. For once in his life, he wished he could just _stop thinking_ for a minute. The thoughts were rushing in so fast and swirling until he felt like he was drowning. _Will there be a standoff? He could be killed by crossfire. Have they dumped his body there? Have they changed vehicles? Is he afraid? Does he know I’m looking for him? What if the concussion was serious and he’s in need of medical attention? Will I ever see his beautiful eyes light up again the way they did on Saturday?_

Anthea had moved to stand next to him on the pretext of getting a better look at one of the surveillance photos Yates had put up. He felt a gentle nudge at his elbow and looked down.

“ _Breathe_ ,” she mouthed. 

Yes, that. His body had reacted to the mental flood by conserving air as if expecting a physical rush of waves. 

She understood his small nod to be the thank you that it was and moved back to her laptop. 

Just then, Agent Vaughan bustled in.

“Sir, I have the report on the Banahua cartel you requested. Interpol sent over their list of known members, and we’ve pulled customs records from the past year. Here’s the list believed to still be in the UK…”

Back to work. 

*****

Mycroft was reviewing a list of properties owned by shell companies with cartel ties, trying to narrow down locations where Gregory’s captors might hole up or resupply, when Garret put the police radio frequency on the speaker. The first officers were securing the entrances and exits of the parking garage. 

_Hsssp, crackle. “South entrance secure..Ma’am, stay in your car.”_

_“Three employees in north control booth. Report one employee working on level four and one in south control booth.”_

_“Ground level...hsssp...clear; no vehicle matching description.”_

_“Level 1, sweeping from ramp clockwise.”_

_“Affirmative. Taking counter.”_

_“Van matching description.”_

Mycroft held his breath. 

_“Negative. No logo, no one inside, parking receipt from five hours ago.”_

_“Sir, stay in your vehicle until released by an officer.”_

_“Moving to level 2.”_

Mycroft kept a stern look of concentration on his face, quite believable if one didn’t notice how tightly he was gripping the pen in his hand, as the officers swept the structure. He knew Sherlock was in the building as well; he’d turned on the tracking on his phone, and his brother had for once not complained or shut it down. 

Anyone with a less stoic constitution would have jumped when his phone rang. 

For once, he wished Sherlock had texted because then he wouldn’t have to control his reaction if it was bad news. _Please not a body, please not a body…_

“Sherlock. Report?”

“They’re not here anymore. The interior cameras were deliberately disabled shortly before the van arrived; Alvarez has associates other than those who were with him at the restaurant who are aiding his movement. I have deduced from the tyre marks, cigarette butts, and…”

“ _Sherlock_.” Sherlock was in the habit of explaining his deductions for John and Lestrade, but Mycroft didn’t care how he knew at this point. He trusted Sherlock with this. 

“Fine. There was a second van waiting, but the original was not left behind. Presumably, Alvarez will have sent it in another direction to serve as a distraction. However, if we locate it, the driver may be... _persuaded_ to be useful. The officers are questioning the car park staff, but have not yet obtained anything helpful. The attendants hadn’t even noticed the cameras being out on the first two levels, and as most are recent immigrants, there’s a language barrier. Do you have anyone on staff who speaks Twi?” 

*****

It was another hour before the Dawn’s Dry Cleaning van was located, abandoned in the car park of a Tesco on the outskirts of Portsmouth. Local authorities were tasked with looking out for the driver, but Mycroft wasn’t terribly optimistic. At this point, they didn’t know which of the men had been driving, and his face behind tinted windows wasn’t clear in CCTV footage. He was likely to be Mexican and have visible tattoos, but Mycroft could hardly order everyone in Portsmouth with a tattoo to be rounded up. The Yard sent a forensics team to gather any evidence they could, and Mycroft sped up the process by providing a helicopter. 

_Gregory, where are you? I promise I’m doing everything in my power to find you._


	12. October 2010

_**October 2010** _

It was extremely rare for Mycroft to show up unannounced at a crime scene these days; best to leave his brother with the illusion that he was no longer keeping close tabs on his daily life. This time, however, it seemed the best course of action. Sherlock’s signature was needed on a bit of family business, and he had been running from case to case for the past week, and naturally, he couldn’t be bothered to answer a phone call from his only sibling. He’d even tried passing a message through John, but the good doctor had obviously been practicing his evasion skills as well. So, here he was. 

Sherlock and John were crouched over the body of an elderly man and apparently ignoring everyone else. 

“Oh, hey Mycroft.” 

“Detective Insp…” This earned him an eye roll. “...Gregory.” 

“Posh Bastard,” Greg replied, more fond than malicious. “What brings you to this picturesque corner of our great city?” 

The eye roll was returned. “Sherlock’s avoiding me, and I need his signature on some documents. This seemed the best place to accomplish the matter quickly and with a minimum of histrionics.” 

“Heh, yeah, probably. Good luck with that. I’ll try to warn you if I see him trying to slip off.”

“Your assistance is appreciated as always.”

“I live to be of service.” 

Mycroft snorted. “While I’m waiting, any indications that there might someday be a victor to our little wager?”

“Huh...oh, which?” Lestrade had been momentarily distracted listening to a report coming from the radio of the nearest panda car. Not his division. 

“That.” Mycroft indicated with a nod. Sherlock was expounding on his deductions, and John was gazing up at him with complete attention. 

“Heh. Not so I’ve heard, but look at ‘em, would ya? Do they realize what they look like?” 

“There is none so blind as he who will not see.”

“John keeps dating all these women; never lasts long. He moans about it at the pub, but I don’t think it actually bothers him much.” 

“Well, I do hope that my brother will continue in his ignorance for at least eight more days. It’s not my month.” 

Greg snorted, and Mycroft glanced around quickly to see if anyone else was in earshot. He stepped closer to Greg, who quirked an eyebrow. Keeping his head turned so that Sherlock wouldn’t read his lips if he happened to look his way (unlikely, as he was happily amazing John), Mycroft muttered breathily in a low voice: 

“Oh, John, tell me again how wonderful I am.”

And then in a slightly higher voice:

“You are amazing! Stupendous! The sun revolves around you! Or it would if you had any idea of how the sun works!” 

Lestrade’s eyes bugged out as he tried not to laugh out loud. 

“Oh, my brave soldier! I live for your praise!” 

“I will never tire of giving it to you, you magnificent creature!” 

Mycroft and Greg looked at each other and gagged. 

“Go on, go on!” Greg gasped out. 

Mycroft smirked. The pair were looking down at the body again now. He piled on another layer of syrup. “I pity this man, not because he died at the hands of his mistress, but because he will never know a passion like ours!” 

“Wait, the mistress? Really?” 

“Oh, yes, it’s obvious; look at the shoes he’s wearing.” 

“I forget sometimes that you’re related to him.” 

“Quite...oh, look, trouble in paradise.” Sherlock seemed to be outlining a plan of action, and John wasn’t liking it. 

“To find the killer, I will hang glide from the top of the Shard, wearing nothing but a rabbit costume, carrying a live grenade.” 

Greg replied in a sugary, overdone tone. “Oh, my love! I will not allow you to put yourself in such danger! It should be I that rides through Hyde Park on a flaming motorcycle!”

“What madness! My plan is the only way!”

Greg was laughing so hard he had to hold on to the car to stay upright. He gasped out, “Here...here...Mad? Me? I am the pinnacle of common sense. Your plan will fail, and I will die of a broken heart!”

Back to Mycroft. They continued with Mycroft voicing his brother and Greg taking John’s part.

“But why would your heart be broken if I am killed in an overly dramatic and unnecessarily attention-seeking manner?”

“Because, you fool, I have been secretly in love with you since the day we met!”

Across the way, the disagreement seemed to have been resolved as John quit staring Sherlock down as if he were a recalcitrant child, and Sherlock dropped his haughty and condescending demeanour. They stepped closer, obviously working out a better plan of action, or discussing some point of the evidence; Mycroft didn’t have a clear view of their lips from here. 

“In that case, let’s forget about avenging the death of this esteemed gentleman, even though he likely brought it upon himself by luring in young women with grand promises and then abandoning them, and plan our elopement.” 

“Really, with the young women?” 

“Yes, yes. He fancied himself a “sugar daddy”, grotesque phrase, but could not fulfil the boasts he made. When the women began asking questions, he would find some excuse to end the relationship in as cruel a manner as possible.” 

“Bastard.” 

“Quite...now, where were we? Oh, yes, it was your turn.”

“Okay, okay...oh, the elopement. Oh Sherlock! I will elope with you on one condition!”

“Anything for you! I will scale Mt. Everest, I will swim the Channel, I will…”

“I only ask that you propose properly! I must have a ring, a carriage ride, and rose petals fluttering down from above.”

“Of course, my love! Is there anything else that your heart desires?”

“...a dozen swans, a string quartet, fourteen rosy-cheeked children waving streamers…”

“I will do all of this and more! Only be mine!”

“...champagne on ice, a personal blessing from the queen…”

“Consider it done! I...oof.” Lestrade elbowed him and hissed. Sherlock and John had wrapped up their examination of the body and were halfway to them. Sherlock was giving them an odd look. 

“...I quite agree that the Prime Minister’s speech on the new tax law was a travesty.”

“I’m glad we see eye to eye on that. The latest tax regulations are necessary to ensure the proper working of…”

“Mycroft. I highly doubt you deigned to stick your abnormally large nose out of Whitehall for the sole purpose of boring Lestrade with your maunderings about taxes.” 

“Quite so, brother mine. Alas, your phone appears to not be in working order, and thus I was forced to burden you with my presence. If you will be so kind as to step over to the car, I have a small piece of family business that requires your signature.” 

Sherlock glanced at John, who shrugged, and traipsed after his brother with bad grace. 

“Hey, John, find anything interesting on the body?”

John eyed him suspiciously. “...yes. He was pepper sprayed and then strangled with a thin leather strap, most likely a purse strap. Are you feeling alright?” 

Greg, whose eyes were watering from the effort to stop laughing, made a show of pretending he was about to sneeze. “Fine, fine. Bit of hay fever.” 

“In October?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I know this is really cracky. But, I wanted to show them laughing together, and I hope it made you laugh as well. Silly boys. :)


	13. Petrol Station

Greg was really beginning to regret that coffee he’d gulped right before running after that idiot Alvarez. He didn’t have a watch or his phone to tell the exact time, but the afternoon light was beginning to dim, and it felt like they must have been driving for the better part of three hours. He wasn’t sure where they were at this point; unfortunately, the day was cloudy, so it was hard to keep track of direction changes. From the rude grunts and eye rolls from Raul whenever Alvarez would give a direction, it seemed that they were doubling back and taking a very circuitous route. On the motorway, off the motorway, through the countryside, edging around outskirts of somewhere, back on the motorway…the only thing that was certain by now was that if they didn’t stop soon, Greg was going to piss his pants, which would just really add a whole new dimension of fun to the excursion. 

“Uh, boss, we’re gonna have to stop for gas soon.” 

_Oh, thank God._

“What? Did you not fill this thing up yesterday?”

“No…still had half a tank when I got back from making the delivery in Islington.”

“I told you to have the van ready at all times!”

Raul just shrugged. The others seemed to be, if not fearful, at least cautious about drawing the ire of their leader, but Raul wasn’t much bothered. He drove steadily on while Alvarez muttered, and the rest in the back perked up a bit from the half-dozing lethargy they’d sunk into at the hope of a chance to stretch their legs and maybe grab a drink. 

After ten minutes, during which Greg desperately tried to recall the complete lyrics to every song he could think of by the Beatles to distract himself from the burning sensation in his bladder, Alvarez finally spoke again.

“That one.” The van turned sharply. Greg squeezed his thighs tighter. “Y’all keep quiet and still back there while we’re getting gas. We’ll park in the back and you can get out if you need to, but I don’t want to draw attention at the pump with everybody climbing out of here like a clown car.” 

The impending explosion of his bladder made Greg start to sweat slightly as Raul went inside to pay cash, coming back with a Coca-cola and a bag of crisps, and then plodded through filling the tank. _Damn the big tanks on these things_. Alvarez put on a baseball cap and kept his face down, fiddling with his phone. _Cameras! He’s avoiding the cameras! I’ve got to find a way to be seen._

Finally, _finally_ , Raul finished and got back in, taking the time to settle his beverage into the cup holder and stow the crisps beside his seat. 

“Park back there by the dumpster. Back in.”

With the rear doors facing away from the Petrol station, Alvarez finally allowed the gang to disembark. 

“Hey! Two at a time inside! Don’t draw attention to yourselves! Yo, Big Tony, put your jacket on; somebody might remember that ink.” Greg smirked. _Maaaaybe a tattoo of a woman in a minuscule but colourful bikini with her legs wrapped around his arm wasn’t the best choice for stealth_. 

It appeared that Greg was to be left where he was like so much baggage, so he was forced to kick up a fuss.

“Oi! You’re going to want to let me out of here unless you want me to piss all over the floor.” _I wonder if there’s some way I can manage to piss in Alvarez’s seat?_

Alvarez gave him a hard look and then sighed.

“Miggy, Luis…take him behind the dumpster. Find a jacket or something to put on him; cover up the blood.” _Oh, good, he doesn’t want this van to smell like a urinal for the rest of the trip to wherever._

Greg’s handcuffs were removed to get the jacket on him and were left off in case anyone who glanced their way should happen to notice the man offensively urinating in public and look long enough to become curious. Luis elbowed him and held up a nasty looking knife, glaring at him meaningfully before slipping it back into his own jacket pocket. _Right. Escape attempts unlikely to go well_. 

His knees popped as he walked stiffly, with Luis’s hand on his elbow, behind the dumpster. Unfortunately, the Petrol station backed up to a line of trees, so potential witnesses were unlikely. The small part of his brain that could think of anything beyond getting his fly down without embarrassing himself started discreetly looking for cameras. 

Aaah. Thank God. Greg aimed to let the urine hit the side of the skip instead of directly onto the ground. You never know, they might bring a dog to check for his scent if anyone tracked him this far. Cameras! There, a security camera overlooking the car park from the light post in the corner. No way to tell if it was on, but he should be on the edge of its view. Fortunately, Luis was behind him and Miggy to his right, so he pretended shyness at urinating under their gaze and kept his face turned left, towards the camera. _Come on, Mycroft. I’m counting on you. If anyone has some fancy facial recognition program that can pick this up, it would be you. How long can I pee? Oh, God, if I die, Mycroft’s last view of me will be of me pissing._

“Hurry UP. God, how long does it take to piss?” _Probably needs to piss himself. Wanker._

Greg tucked himself away as slowly as possible, glancing up again in the direction of the camera a couple more times. He considered making a break for it, but as soon as his fly was zipped Luis’s hand was on his elbow again. 

“You think about it, I’ll knife you. Get in the van.” 

He climbed in as slowly as he dared but was sped up by a helpful shove from Miggy, who climbed in after and put the cuffs back on him, thankfully in the front this time. By the time he’d finished, a couple of the other guys had returned and kept guard until they were ready to get back on the road. Damn them and Damn their Snickers they weren’t sharing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and back to poor Greg. This chapter's pretty short, but I'll be making it up with the next few. Fair warning: three of the next five chapters are over 5k each. I plan to post again on Sunday (1/28). 
> 
> Thank you again to all of you who are reading and commenting. It's so much fun seeing your reactions, and I'm grateful for the chance to make you laugh (and other emotions, coming soon). :)


	14. March 2011

_**March 2011** _

Mycroft’s flight arrived just after 11 pm, and after spending four weeks trying to negotiate with blustering Americans and Canadians that were too polite to ever actually get to a point, all he could think to do was go straight home and sleep in his own bed in his blissfully quiet house. Upon waking seven hours later, he had regained enough ability to think for three thoughts to crash into his brain as he squinted at the clock. One, all those cups of tea he’d had to stay awake on the flight were going to end up making a mess of the bed if he didn’t move quickly. Two, he needed to check in on a particularly obstreperous cabinet member to be sure that he hadn’t done the exact opposite of what Mycroft had advised the second his plane took off. Three, he really wanted to have lunch—or brunch, even better—with D. I. Lestrade. 

He pondered this as he curled his toes against the cold tile floor while taking care of thought number one. He hadn’t spoken to the DI since nearly a week before his departure, and he’d found himself wishing more than once that he was sharing a meal with him rather than the political leaders or high-ranking intelligence officials he’d sat across from on working lunches. Surprisingly, he’d even thought, a couple of times, that it would have been nice to have Lestrade’s terrible jokes rather than his quiet solitary dinners when he’d escaped obligations. Usually, he treasured these quiet meals alone. 

He realized with a bit of start as he washed his hands that this was the first time in some months, or possibly years, that he’d gone a month without speaking with Lestrade. Squashing this thought down, he turned the shower on and grabbed a towel. If he admitted just how often he sought out the man’s company, he would have to admit that their meetings only held the barest hint of business these days. Sherlock was managing his own affairs a bit better at the moment—well, John was managing Sherlock’s affairs at the moment—so their discussion of him was more of the eye-roll and so-here’s-what-he-said-yesterday variety rather than the intense strategizing of danger nights that it had been so often in the past. And if they weren’t meeting for business, well. Mycroft Holmes did not do social chatting with mates, so he carefully made up his mind that he needed to see ~~Grego~~ Lestrade as soon as possible to get an update on his brother and the state of criminal activity in London. After all, the agent he’d assigned to follow Sherlock’s movement by CCTV yesterday as a form of welfare-check could have been mistaken that Sherlock and John were happily ensconced in a case for a private client and that John had even convinced Sherlock to eat a healthy meal while doing so. 

After his late night arrival, he allowed himself a fairly light day. He did need to file reports on the intelligence gathered and agreements made during his trip, but certainly no one would begrudge him a long lunch (of course, anyone else would have taken at least two days off to recover). He pulled his phone off the charger and stuck it in his dressing gown pocket as he went downstairs to make coffee. Where to meet Lestrade today? He’d quite missed the salmon at the Rockingham House. 

He called while waiting for the coffee to brew. Straight to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message; at this time of morning Gregory might be in the shower, or driving. 

He called again while contemplating breakfast options in the refrigerator. Voicemail again. Odd. Lestrade always had his phone at hand even on his off days in case of emergency, and rarely slept through a ring. Perhaps he was unwell? Or had damaged his phone? Or was in an obnoxiously early meeting (Mycroft was unfortunately well acquainted with the horrors of _those_.) Or out of town? He hadn’t had plans to be last he spoke with him. 

They had, thus far, really only spoken to arrange face-to-face meetings, but perhaps in the future, he should make a point to email or…ugh, text while on longer ventures abroad. _Not knowing_ was as irksome to him as to his younger brother, although he usually responded to lack of information by employing spy tactics rather than throwing tantrums and foregoing sleep for three days. 

He called again just after nudging his omelette onto a plate. _Still_ no response, straight to voicemail. This time he left one. 

When Lestrade had still not responded by the time he arrived at the office an hour later, he was torn between feeling irritated and slightly worried. _Fine_. He’d text if he had to.

**I have returned from my business trip abroad. I wish to meet with you to discuss our mutual concerns in London. Would lunch today fit with your schedule? -MH**

An hour later and no return text. Well, lunch was looking unlikely. 

**If lunch is inconvenient, I could find time in my agenda for the day to meet over dinner after 6 pm.** -MH

Nothing. That’s it. He picked up another phone.

“Peters? Find the current location of POI #312 and report to me immediately.”

Six minutes later, he had a report, complete with boarding pass scans and online travel agency receipts. Lestrade—and Mrs Lestrade—were in the south of France for the week. How inconvenient. And the return tickets weren’t for two more days. The day felt rather dull without the prospect of a shared meal. Furthermore, Sherlock was likely to be running amok without Lestrade’s cases, and he had important meetings scheduled for both the day of their return and the day after, and honestly, he should have been made aware of this situation either by Lestrade himself or by his agents, due to the ~~possible~~ probable effects on Sherlock. 

It didn’t occur to Mycroft—and he didn’t bother to question it because it was so rare that anything _didn’t_ occur to Mycroft Holmes—that his indignation that he labelled inconvenience was actually a bit closer to feeling…left out. 

But, as always, Mycroft’s focus was impeccable and he worked steadily through the day catching up on matters that hadn’t been urgent enough to forward to him while he was away. 

He had just stepped inside his front door and removed his scarf when his phone buzzed. Lestrade.

“Detective Inspector.”

“Heey, yeah, s’me. I just heard your message, sorry I…I just got it.”

“That’s quite alright. I understand you are on holiday in France?”

“S’creepy how you always know things…but no, I’m in…” The sentence trailed off, and Mycroft heard background noise: laughter, clinking glasses, the distant clack of billiards balls. In a pub, then. But the background voices did not sound French. “Lonnon. I’m in London.” 

“Are you quite alright, Detective Inspector?”

“Oh..yeah, yeah…came back early…no point staying…HEY! ONE MORE OVER HERE!”

“Please do have a care for the aural preservation of your conversational partner.”

“What? Oh, oh, sorry. Just needed…yeah.”

“Are you intoxicated?”

“Yeah, a bit. Just a bit…just left, came back early…said if it…” Lestrade trailed off. “Damn it. I’m _happy_. I’m not dr…drinking because I’m _sad._ ”

“Of course you’re not. And what, may I ask, are you _not_ sad about?”

“She…I knew she was…thought maybe, but no, of course not…she just…no more.” 

Mycroft correctly interpreted this string of partial phrases to mean that the trip with Mrs Lestrade had perhaps not been filled with domestic bliss. 

“Vicky…she said she’d stop, that she wanted…but no…s’always the same…I’m juss not gonna do…” Apparently Lestrade had reached a level of intoxication that made direct objects a difficult part of a sentence to manage. Mycroft heard a pint being drained rather too quickly, and raucous laughter that was quickly going to give him a headache even over the phone. It couldn’t be improving Lestrade’s mental state. And then he heard a small sniff. 

“Gregory?” 

“I’m ‘ere…” Sniff. “I just cannn…Mycroft?”

“Yes, I am still on the line.”

“I just cannnn….can’t do it anymore. Over. Donnnne.”

“I’m assuming you are referring to the state of affairs with your spouse?” Mycroft supposed he _could_ use simpler sentence structures to fit Lestrade’s current critical thinking skills, but, well, while some of the times he’d been called an arsehole had been uncalled for, some of them hadn’t been.

“Huh? Oh, yeah…affairs. That’s it…I never…I never did, but she…” Decidedly more sniffing, and the words sounded as if they were coming from a throat tightening with emotion. 

“Gregory? Do you need me to call a car to convey you home?” 

More background noise with the occasional sniff. 

“Gregory?”

“Greg?” Worth a shot; he may be too inebriated to realize his own name, since most of his acquaintance forebore using it regularly.

“Detective Inspector!” Just background noise.

Mycroft sighed and pulled out his other phone to call for a location search and then a driver. 

“Oi, is this one o’ Greggie’s mates?” An unfamiliar voice boomed over the phone.

“I am an associate of Mr Lestrade, yes. And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Wha…oh, yeah, this is Otis. Bartender. You ‘is mate? Cos he’s gonna need someone to make sure ‘e gets home, and ‘e came in alone.” 

“I will come to fetch him. What is the name of your fine establishment?”

The bartender paused a moment to catch up all those syllables. 

“Yeah, yeah, the Cock and Dog, on Albury Street. I’ll keep an eye on ‘em till you can get over ‘ere.” 

“That would be appreciated. I will arrive shortly.” 

*****

Mycroft paused a moment before opening the car door to decide how he ought to approach Lestrade. He’d never found himself in the position of dragging a drunken mate out of a bar. Surely some strategies for use with childish politicians throwing a tantrum could carry over to this new situation? 

He wrinkled his nose as he stepped in the door at the combined noise of a rugby game on telly and clamour of conversations. He was also sure that he’d have to have this suit cleaned immediately to rid it of the thick smell of beer that was sure to cling. Lestrade, at least, was easy to find. He was sitting at the near end of the bar, slumped onto an elbow. That arm seemed to be doing all the work of keeping his head upright. With the other hand, he was drawing lazy patterns in the condensation rings from his latest pint. Judging by the deep sigh followed by a sniff that Mycroft heard as he approached, his thoughts were depressing. 

Mycroft caught the eye of the bartender and gave a nod at the depressed drunk. He slipped a card to the man, who correctly understood that he was to close out Lestrade’s tab. As Lestrade had yet to look up, he waited for the transaction and slipped the card back into his wallet before hesitantly putting a hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. 

“Gregory?” Dulled by the alcohol, Lestrade reacted slowly, finishing the figure eight he’d been doodling with his fingertip before looking up. 

“Huh?” He finally found the energy to lift his eyes, but when he did the unexpected sight of Mycroft in a pub finally brought him out of his thoughts. “My...Mycroft?” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

“I...I’m drunk.” 

“Yes, I realize that.” 

“Are you drunk, too? You should be drunk, too.” Lestrade started looking frantically for the bartender, who was wiping the counter several feet away and steadfastly ignoring him. 

“That’s quite alright, but thank you for your effort to...share.” 

“Why are you in my pub, My...Myc?” The full name was apparently a challenge at this point. 

“I’m here to assist you in returning home.” 

“Nooo...not home. Don’t wanna go home.” Lestrade’s lip came out in a pout. “Need another pint! HEY! Otiiiiisss…” 

Mycroft actually snickered aloud at the sight of that pout on the face of a man with silver hair. Fortunately, that distracted Lestrade from his quest to acquire more alcohol; unfortunately, he took offence to being laughed at. 

“Isss not funny! I _need_ another...I...shit.” He turned his back squarely on Mycroft and hunched his shoulders. 

“Gregory, come now. It’s time to go home. You may have another when you get home if you still want it.” He’d almost certainly fall asleep immediately once he got home. 

“Okay. I’ll go home. My. Mycroft!” He was quite proud of himself for managing the name again. He grinned. _Ah, the fickle emotions of the intoxicated_ , Mycroft thought. It took all of his considerable self-control to not laugh again. 

“Excellent. Here, put your jacket on.” 

“Mycroft! You’re taking me home!.” Lestrade seemed to find this extremely amusing. “Mycroft Holmes is taking me home.” Then the man _giggled._

“Well, I’m glad this turn of events has improved your emotional state. Jacket, now.” 

“Vicky would _hate_ that. I should tell her.” He gleefully abandoned the goal of wearing the jacket to scrabble for the phone in the pocket. “Gonna tell her...that...Oi!” 

Even Mycroft was not so out of touch with social norms to not realize that drunk texting was unlikely to turn out well. He plucked the phone from Lestrade’s fingers and stuck it in his own jacket pocket. 

“That’s mine!”

“Yes, it is. I will return it once your mental capacity has returned to its standard level.” _Oh, god, the pouty lip again. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh…_ Mycroft had to look away. “Now, _jacket._ ” 

Lestrade complied, although the way he nearly crossed his eyes in his concentration to get the right sleeves on the right arms nearly broke Mycroft’s control. 

“I _hate_ her. She’s the _worst_. I don’t want to see her ever, ever again.” _Ah, so the state of the Lestrade marriage is truly dire. Explains the attempt to drown himself in alcohol._ Lestrade nodded emphatically and started patting himself to locate his wallet. 

“I’ve already taken care of your tab.” _Anyone who wishes to learn to deduce should start with the intoxicated,_ Mycroft mused, as he watched Lestrade tip his head and try to think back through their conversation to discover when he had paid. He didn’t enlighten him, and Lestrade finally concluded that even if he didn’t notice it, it was a good thing. 

“You’re the best! I like you.” 

“Well, that’s convenient, as you need to accompany me to the car now.” 

“I really like you. Not like _her_. She’s...she’s…” Lestrade narrowed his eyes as he searched his scrambled brain for an appropriately negative adjective for the wife he was clearly not on good terms with. He shrugged. “I’ve never been to your house. Take me home!” 

“I am assisting you to return to _your_ home; I…ack.” The enthusiastic bear hug he found himself the object of knocked the air needed to finish that thought right out of his lungs. Oh dear. 

“Gregory?” 

“Oh...oh, yeah, sorry.” Lestrade sheepishly loosened his grip and stepped back, but he looked up at Mycroft with a look on his face that Mycroft had rarely seen directed at himself. He sucked in a breath. _Oh, god. He’s that type of drunk...Psychologically, the urge to reassure oneself with a new sexual partner after suffering from the termination of a long-term emotional attachment is well-documented, but to express that desire at an object that is not of the preferred gender of the…_

“Mycroft? Are you okay?” Lestrade patted his arm. He was trying to arrange his face in an expression of concern, but not quite succeeding. 

“Quite. As I was explaining, I am taking you to _your_ home. You are intoxicated, and you need to sleep.” 

Lestrade looked slightly sad at this but recovered at a speed only the drunk can manage. “I don’t like my house. I’m gonna get a new one. I’m gonna take my books, and my films, and my…” While he recited a list of his possessions, Mycroft managed to finally steer him out the door, looking back to share a longsuffering eye-roll with Otis. 

He carefully did not think about what it would be like to get a look like the one Gregory had given him when the man was sober and not emotionally compromised. 

*****

“Mycroft, I like your car. The seats are very soft.” 

“Turn on the radio! We should listen to The Clash! Oi, why did you roll the window back up?” 

“I...I really need to piss.” 

“I didn’t _like_ France. Well, last time I liked France. But this time _she_ was in France. And I don’t want to talk to her.” 

“I really, really, really need to piss.” 

“I like your tie. I like red. I also like green, but…well, you know about green.” (Mycroft did not know about green, but Lestrade seemed to be forgetting his thoughts as soon as he uttered them, so was unable to elaborate.)

“I can’t piss in an alley! I’ll get an...asspo...no, wait, not right..and ASBO!” 

“You promise I won’t get an ASBO?” 

“Are you _sure?_ The commishner will be _angry_ with me.” 

“Yes! I feel _much_ better. Now I need another pint! Look, there’s a bar over there! Let’s go there!”

“My..Mycroft. Why did you lock my door? Do you not _trust_ me? Are you kidnapping me?” The sniffle and look of betrayal on his friend’s face was the last straw; Mycroft laughed until his stomach hurt while Greg glared at him.

“I really want more beer. I _need_ more.” 

“They have nicotine patches for cigarette cravings; why don’t they have patches for when you want alcohol?” _Oh dear. An inventive drunk is dangerous_. 

“I...I don’t feel very well.” 

When the twenty-minute trip involved two stops next to dark alleys when the motion of the car upset Lestrade’s liquid core in one way or another, Mycroft realized that it might not be best to leave his friend unattended. 

“Havers? Take us to my home instead.” 

*****

By the time Mycroft and Havers had prodded him up the steps and into the sitting room and the jacket that had taken such concentration to put on was removed with nearly as much trouble, Lestrade’s intoxication was waning somewhat, but he was so lethargic that he could barely lift his feet to remove his shoes. 

“Here, allow me to assist you.” Mycroft pulled off the second shoe and lined it up neatly next to its partner at the end of the sofa. He had intended to offer Lestrade a guest room, but it was clear he didn’t have the energy left to climb the stairs of his own power, and Mycroft was not inclined to attempt to carry him. Partly because he was afraid that being in a room with a bed would remind Lestrade of what he had clearly thought for a moment at the bar. 

“Would you be more comfortable if I provided you with sleepwear?” 

Lestrade looked down at his trousers in consideration, but shrugged. Too much effort to move. 

Havers returned with a bucket from the cleaning cupboard. 

“Thank you, Havers. That will be all for tonight.” 

“Gregory? Are you listening?” When Lestrade looked up, he continued. “I’m placing this bucket here in case you feel unwell. I’ll return shortly with a pillow and a blanket.” 

When Mycroft returned, Lestrade was dozing. He eased the pillow under his head and draped the blanket over him. After turning the lamp off, he turned to go.

“Myc?” Not _quite_ asleep, then.

“Yes, Gregory?” 

“Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” 

“I’m getting a divorce.” 

“From the emotions you expressed in reference to your wife, I had gathered that was a distinct possibility.” 

“What? ...Yes. I used to love her.” _Oh, no, please don’t start the sniffling again._ “But. But she cheated on me. Again.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“I knew she had before. I thought we could try again, get past it. But she’s not going to stop.” 

Mycroft sat down in the nearest armchair. Apparently, this was going to be more of a monologue than a brief announcement. 

“I don’t know why I wanted it to work out so badly that I put up with all that. I guess just not wanting to admit I’d failed, ya know?” 

“In this case, it seems more a matter of her failure to remain faithful to her vows than a failure on your part.” 

“Yeah...I know she hates that I work so much. But what can I do? That’s how this job goes. I guess if I really wanted the marriage to work, I could have done something different, got a desk job...but I know I’d resent it. And then that would mess it up.” 

Mycroft nodded, although he wasn’t sure if Lestrade could see the gesture in the dimly lit room. 

“It’s just hard...well...I’m happy it’s over, really, but sad because I did love her, although I don’t think I do anymore, but I’m angry about the cheating. She’s not even _trying_. And everything she _said._ She doesn’t trust me, and it’s just not gonna work without trust…”

_Oh dear. Now he’s wallowing in sentiment. What should I do if he starts crying again? I have the MI6 after-incident therapist in my contacts; perhaps I could request her assistance._

“I don’t know why I’ve bothered so long. Our marriage has been crap for years. All the stuff she loved about me when we were dating turned out to be the stuff she hated.” 

_And I suppose I’m to be treated to a recitation of the list_. 

“She loved my motorcycle; said she liked the bad boy look when I wore my leather jacket..”

_Oh dear GOD. Please stop speaking about leather._

“...and then she’s the one who talked me into selling the bike. Too dangerous, we’re adults now, blah blah blah. And she liked that I was a copper. Working for the greater good, wearing a uniform, being a protector, just too bad it didn’t pay more. But then when I moved up and it paid more, she didn’t like the odd hours, was afraid I’d be injured in the line of duty and said I just wanted to feel like I was better than everyone else.” 

_Well, I’ve long thought she must be an idiot._

“When my hair starting going grey so young, she said it made me look distinguished. But now she dyes hers and complains that having a husband with grey hair makes _her_ look older when we’re seen together. I coulda dyed mine, but by that point, I just didn’t want to bother; if it wasn’t _that_ she was bitching about, it’d be something else…”

_Gray is not quite an adequate descriptor. Your hair is silver, if I had to classify the hue._

“And then there’s her issue with me being bisexual. When we were younger, she thought…”

_In fact, the silver hair might have had a possible influence on your quick promotion; it lends an air of experience...wait. WHAT?_

“...that it was edgy and cool. I think it made her feel liberal and modern to be so accepting of it. Not like she’d ever _seen_ me with a bloke, anyway. I hadn’t been with any men in at least a couple of years before I met her...seemed easier at work, you know how it was in the nineties.”

Mycroft was never shocked. Well, almost never. But. He had, of course, observed the small signs that the D.I. noticed men as well as women. However, he had thought that Lestrade was likely unaware of it himself; so many people raised in the Thatcher era just squashed down any homosexual thoughts if they were contented with heterosexual relationships. And even if he was wrong and he had realized it, he hadn’t expected him ever to admit it, especially not so openly and matter-of-factly. 

“But later on, she seemed to think I was dissatisfied with her if I so much as glanced at a bloke. I even experimented a bit on her. I let my gaze linger on other attractive women when we were out together, and she never noticed. But glance at a man, and I must surely be wishing I could have a bloke on the side. It’s ridiculous, I chose _her_ , why does she think that just because I could potentially be attracted to a wider pool of people that I didn’t mean my vows? It’s rubbish, is what it is. Being straight didn’t keep _her_ from fucking that P.E. teacher, did it? My sister thought the same way, but I set _her_ straight and she was able to get it, but not Vicky, no. Always saying she got it, but then bringing it up again in a fight…” 

Mycroft let Lestrade ramble on about the misunderstanding of bisexuality in society, his many grievances against his now-estranged wife, and the disastrous attempt to go on holiday together to reconcile. 

Mycroft was not looking for a relationship; he had long ago realized that sentiment was distracting and that he simply did not have the time to spare from his work. No one could be expected to be amenable to his schedule, and most significant others would not understand that he could not speak about many of the things he did on a daily basis. Furthermore, he was perfectly content without a partner, so it only made sense to remain single. He’d had a few dalliances, but was sure to be clear at the outset that it was nothing more than that. He did have political enemies; it was possible that someone interested in dating him could be a spy.

It was true that Gregory was the sort of man he found attractive, but the point was moot because he was heterosexual and married. Though those considerations were no longer true, a dalliance was out of the question at this point as it would surely cause conflict in their working relationship. He’d grown rather...fond...of their periodic meetings, and presenting himself as a rebound distraction had an eighty-three percent chance of making future interactions awkward. So, this revelation, while surprising, would change nothing. 

He didn’t even notice the gaping hole that had just been knocked through the brick wall he’d built around himself and his heart. 

*****

Greg woke to sunlight burning into his skull. He squinted at the gap in the curtains and tried to move his tongue from where it seemed to be glued to his teeth. It took several seconds before he woke enough to notice that the curtains were not his curtains and the sofa was not his sofa. 

From the pounding headache, he concluded that he must have been drunk. He had a blanket and a pillow. He opened his eyes all the way for long enough to notice the large fireplace, antique side tables, and thick rug. He shut his eyes against the light and turned his face into the pillow. Great. He hadn’t woken up at someone else’s house with a hangover in twenty-five years. At least this place was much posher than the mates’ bachelor pads with competitive stacks of pizza boxes that he’d woken up in back then. 

Slowly he worked through what he could remember of the night before. He remembered talking a lot about Vicky--and the thought of _her_ wasn’t helping his headache right now--and then someone insisting he drink a glass of water before he fell asleep. Before that was a jumble of riding in a car, anger, the bartender at the pub, an alley??, sadness, kicking the door at home before going out for a drink, Mycroft and something about his jacket...ah. Mycroft. Well, that explained the posh stuff, then. 

He rolled over and cracked his eyes open again. Still painful, but not blinding. A longer look around revealed a glass of water and paracetamol on the end table, which he took advantage of gratefully. Shoes just there, and a bucket conveniently placed, which he was thankful he had not needed. Still fully dressed, although he’d probably snored horribly. Stretching out his stiff muscles as he sat up, he pondered just _how_ embarrassed he felt. 

Mycroft chose that moment to appear, showered, perfectly pressed suit, fully awake. Greg could feel his hair sticking to his head, and there was a damp spot on his sleeve where he’d drooled during the night. Ah. That embarrassed. 

“Mycroft, I..” he rubbed his neck. “Sorry about last night; I haven’t been that drunk in years. Thanks for picking me up; did someone at the bar call you? I’ll get out of here and out of your way now.” 

“Gregory. Yes, you were impressively intoxicated. You called me from the pub in response to a voicemail I had left you. The bartender took your phone and expressed his concern that you might need assistance in returning home.” 

Greg groaned. Drunk calling; no telling what he’s said, or who else he’d called. 

“It did not seem prudent for you to remain at your own home without supervision, so you returned here with me.” 

“Thanks. I definitely owe you one. I’m sure you gathered from all my rambling that Vicky and I are finally getting a divorce?”

“Yes, you made that point quite clear.” 

_Meaning I probably cried and complained all evening. Great._ “Yeah...well. Thanks for being a mate and letting me rant.” 

Mycroft wrinkled his nose at being called ‘mate.’ “Of course. Now, I took the liberty of having one of my employees retrieve a change of clothing if you wish to shower.” 

The thought of a hot shower sounded good enough that Greg decided not to think about one of Mycroft’s minions rooting in his pants drawer. 

*****

By the time Greg had washed and dressed, Mycroft had set out warm croissants, sausages, fruit, and coffee. He didn’t even bother protesting as he slumped into a chair. 

“What are your plans for the day, Gregory?” 

Greg sipped his coffee. Obviously a better blend than what he was used to, and just the right temperature. 

“I...haven’t really thought...I suppose I should start packing, but I really don’t want to. I mean, not that I don’t want to move out, I really do, but just...I don’t really want to think about it.” 

Mycroft nodded as he took a slice of pineapple. “When are you expected back at work?” 

“Not until Tuesday; our flight was for Sunday, and then I left an extra day since I had plenty of days stored up anyhow.” Greg tore off a bit of croissant and chewed it thoughtfully. Best to start slowly until he was sure his hangover wasn’t going to make his stomach protest. “I could go back in today; that’s what I usually do, focus on work if I don’t want to think about my personal life.” 

“But you don’t really wish to.” 

“No...it’s just, my team knows I’m not due back until Tuesday. There’ll be all sorts of questions if I come back early. I mean, I’m not going to hide the fact that I’m divorcing her; hell, Sally’ll probably organize a congratulatory cake or something when she finds out. She never liked Vicky. I’d just rather not make a big deal about it.” 

“So, you do not wish to return to work, and you do not wish to return to your flat.”

“That’s the gist of it, yeah. If I spend all day at the flat, I’ll just get angry again, and probably start throwing things.” 

“Well, if I might make a suggestion…” 

Greg took a big bite of sausage and waited to hear what Mycroft would come up with. 

“My brother and Dr Watson departed half an hour ago for a case in Dartmoor. I have noticed that one of my identification cards is missing, and so I suspect Sherlock will be attempting to use it to gain access to places he should not be. Even if he is unsuccessful in that attempt, you can appreciate the disturbance to the local populace of a small village that he could occasion. I would be grateful if you would consent to go along to keep an eye on the proceedings. The cost of your room would be covered, naturally.” 

“So...a long weekend in Dartmoor; only catch is that I have to mind Sherlock if, well, when he gets carried away?”

“Precisely.” 

“Well, I suppose it beats spending the weekend kicking the furniture in my flat.” 

“Excellent. The car will arrive in half an hour, and I took the liberty of requesting that an overnight bag be packed for you while my agent was retrieving the change of clothing for you this morning.” 

“Of course you did.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go, a nice long chapter for you. I had entirely too much fun writing drunk Lestrade. :) 
> 
> Tomorrow I'm working a 10 1/2 hour work day and then driving four hours to Arkansas; my grandmother is having surgery for skin cancer on Tuesday (bad enough to necessitate outpatient surgery and not just removal at the office, and she's eighty, so anything can be major at that age), and I'm going to be taking care of her for several days. I tell you all this to let you know that I will *try* to keep up my normal schedule of posting every 2-3 days, but I may be late on the next chapter. While I had about 90% of this story written before I started posting, there are a couple of chapters that needs some serious work, and the next one is one of them, and this weekend has thus far (and it's 9 pm on Sunday night now) not been as productive for writing as I'd hoped. I'll likely only be able to write after my grandmother goes to sleep, as she is both very nosy and very religious (I do *not* want to explain porny fanfic to her...). That makes her sound awful; she's actually one of my very favourite people. Just, gay smut and grandmothers, you know? 
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and please forgive me if the next is a bit late.


	15. Birmingham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, here it is! The next three chapters are already written, so hopefully, I'll be able to get back on schedule! Thank you all for your patience.

Greg was startled from his doze by a particularly sharp turn. It was fully dark now, and judging from the street lights, they were in a town. The street lights lit up the interior of the van like a strobe light in slow motion. Greg remembered trying to read in the backseat of the car as a child, a couple of words at a time, keeping his finger on the spot to carry on at the next flash of light. He could never understand why his father wouldn’t just drive with the interior lights on to alleviate his boredom; of course now as an adult and a driver, he knew just how annoying those lights were. He had usually given up after a few minutes of reading the same three words over and over and entertained himself by coming up with increasingly silly names for his sisters, which, oddly, they never seemed to appreciate. 

Now, the pulse of light seemed to be timed to match the throbbing in his head. Alvarez had ordered his men to silence a while back; must have been when they were coming into a populated area again. Greg had allowed himself to doze in the silence, but the twinge in his neck from letting his head loll was only enhancing his headache. 

Stretching his stiff muscles as well as he could while still handcuffed and without elbowing the guy next to him--Luis, he thought he’d been called--Greg took stock of the current situation. A couple of the guys were dozing themselves. Another was chewing at a hangnail, and another was drumming his fingers on his leg to music playing in his mind. The big guy by the door was staring at the ceiling as if it were the Sistine Chapel. In the front, Armando was fiddling with his phone and looking annoyed. _Doesn’t break my heart,_ Greg thought. _I hope he feels much more than annoyance soon. Just wait until Mycroft and Sherlock get ahold of him...if they do. Nope, don’t even think it. They will. Soon. I hope._ He couldn’t see anything of Raul but the back of his head from where he sat, but the sighs he didn’t bother stifling every time Alvarez motioned him to turn again made it clear that he was tired of this, too. Alvarez paid no attention to his huffing. 

The short doze hadn’t improved the situation in his mouth. His tongue was sticking to the back of his teeth and his throat had dry patches that he couldn’t seem to hit no matter how he tried to swallow saliva. Maybe if he swallowed while tipping his head this way...nope. What was it about not having access to water that made him think about it all the more? He’d gone this long without drinking before while wrapped up in a case. Ooh, a nice, freshly-poured pint, that’s what he really wanted…

 _“IT’S GOING DOWN, I’M YELLING TIMBER, YOU BETTER MOVE, YOU BETTER_ …” The sudden blaring from Alvarez’s phone in the sleepy silence caused a flutter of minor heart attacks throughout the van. Greg choked on the bit of spit he’d been tilting his head to aim towards that last tickly spot at the back of his throat. Alvarez nearly dropped the phone in the floorboard in his scramble to answer it. He glanced over at Raul a bit sheepishly as the noise stopped. 

“Yeah?” 

“What do you mean we can’t go until morning??” There was a long pause during which Alvarez’s face grew more and more indignant. 

“What? You’re listening to that _puta_ instead of your own brother?” 

The voice on the other end grew louder, loud enough that Greg could hear a bit of what was said: “...do NOT call... _puta_...if YOU...treated your women better...NOT BE...this situation. IF YOU WANT…” This voice quieted a bit and Greg couldn’t make out what was being said for a moment, but picked up a few more words at the end of the rant, “BE THERE at eight, NOT before, and if you’re late, I’ll…” 

Alvarez scowled throughout the response, but kept his mouth shut.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Just, you know, this is a bit of a situation, seems a bit more urgent than your vacation…” 

The response to that was quiet but apparently enough to wipe the scowl off of Alvarez’s face.

“ _Fine_. Morning, then. Eight, I got it, yes. Where are we supposed to go until then??” 

“It’s not like I can just check into a Holiday Inn!” 

Greg heard noises from the phone that sounded suspiciously like, “I DON’T CARE.” 

“Yeah, whatever...I know, I know. Yeah, _thanks._ ” Alvarez jammed his finger onto ‘end call’ with some energy, and sat quietly fuming. Raul took his distraction as an opportunity to drive in what even Greg from his vantage point could tell was two and a half times in the same circle. 

Finally Alvarez burst out, “ _Antonio_ …” with something of the same tone of voice that Sherlock mentioned Mycroft when they’d been bickering. “... _apparently_ can’t manage to get us in the air until morning. He’s just still sore about that thing in Tijuana last year, which was _not_ my fault; I _told_ Juan that…” His rant stirred everyone who had just been on the point of dozing off again after the blaring ringtone back into wakefulness. 

_In the air? So it’s an airport that’s our destination, then? Surely Mycroft has all of them on alert by now…_

Finally, the guy across from Greg leaned forward into the gap between the front seats. ‘So, what are we gonna do all night, then?” 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!”

“We could just drive around, I guess…” Raul let out a grunt at this suggestion.

A few others tossed out ideas, none of them particularly good. Tesco parking lots have surveillance cameras; parking outside the airport gates might attract attention, breaking into a warehouse or garage of some sort, maybe...finding a pub open late was a popular idea, but Alvarez was at least smart enough to veto that (although Greg was beginning to suspect that it wasn’t by much).

“Hey, man! I’ve got an idea!” Someone else pulled the guy sticking his head into the front back and shoved his own way up between the seats. 

“ _What_ , Eddie?” Alvarez was almost to kicking the underside of the dash with frustration. 

“What about Veronica?” 

“Who? What are you talking about?” 

“You know, Veronica Gomez? That chica that used to work for Tia Rosita? Used to date Javier, before Ana said the kid was his?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I remember her. What about her?” 

_He’d better have a point,_ Greg thought. _Alvarez looks like he’d love to have someone to punch._

“She lives here now. We’re in Birmingham, right?” 

“Yeah...do you even know _where_ in this damn city?” 

“I do!” Eddie responded proudly. “She an’ my sister are still tight...I went by there when Fina came over here a couple months ago.” 

“So, what, we just show up at her place and ask if we can have a sleepover?” Alvarez responded snarkily.” 

“Of course she’d let us stay! She’s family, idn’t she?” 

“Yeah, well.” 

“Or you _could_ mention what might happen to her brothers if Tertullo were to hear she turned his nephew away…” Raul added in a bored voice. Greg was beginning to think he was one of the more intelligent of the group. 

Alvarez had a bit of a glint in his eye as he glanced back at Eddie. _Oh, yeah, violent towards women. That’s what got him into this mess in the first place, the altercation with the girlfriend in the hotel room._

“Yeah, alright, better to get off the road before it gets late. Where’s she staying?” 

“Uh...where are we now? I remember we went left from the train station, and then about a mile down the main road before turning…” 

“Do you know the name of the place? I’ll just look it up on my phone.” 

“Uh, it was on...some animal...goat? No, sheep, yeah, there’s a lot of sheep here...Sheep Street? Or no, it was Sheep-something street...Um…” 

_They’re never going to find this place. All the better for the poor girl we’d be invading_. 

 

*****

They found the place.

To Greg’s surprise, it only took an hour and fourteen curse words from Raul to land them outside a rundown set of flats next to a weedy park badly in need of maintenance. The smell of decidedly non-British food wafted through the air. _I don’t know what that is I’m smelling...but I’d be willing to try it_. Greg didn’t suppose he should get his hopes up that he would be served dinner at any point. 

“Pull over there by that tree. Eddie and I'll go over, check it out.” Alvarez pulled his hat down low and peered out of the windscreen, scanning for any dangers. 

Raul parked, for once without comment, and sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as Alvarez got out. Eddie scrambled over the seat to the front. Unfortunately, he just missed elbowing Raul in his hurry. 

Greg listened half-heartedly to the distant music coming from a neighbouring flat. It was three and a half songs before Eddie came back. 

“Yeah, all right. Boss said to not make a racket coming in. Yo, Raul--he wants you to take the van somewhere else and park it.” 

“Like where?” 

“Dunno. Just ‘away’” 

Raul nodded, but huffed and muttered under his breath, something about having to do everything, and if anyone had just listened to him in the first place…

Luis didn’t bother removing Greg’s handcuffs just for the trip across the road, but tucked his jacket over Greg’s wrists so that it looked like he was just carrying a jacket in front of him. As he was ushered across the road, Greg glanced around for any possible cameras. The only one in sight was hanging dejectedly by a wire, pointed straight down at the sidewalk if it was functional at all, which was unlikely. There were people about, although no one seemed to be in the slightest concerned about the presence of the van. The only two that they passed close enough to that he might have tried to catch their eye were obviously drunk enough that they’d be unlikely to catch on that something wasn’t right even if he were a giraffe in a tutu. He was trying his best to leave breadcrumbs, but just wasn’t getting many opportunities. 

They all shuffled into a small sitting room in which Alvarez had already taken over one end of the ratty plaid sofa. The TV was on, some rerun of something from the 1960s in black and white. A young woman with waist-length dark hair and impressively sized earrings--Veronica, he assumed--was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tightly and a furious look on her face. They had apparently distracted her from a righteous rant aimed at Alvarez.

Veronica, Greg was glad to see, was not the meek type. She looked over the posse of scruffy men who were now standing awkwardly about the room with a distinctly unimpressed glare. 

“God, you even brought _Miggy_? Is he even house-trained?” 

Alvarez just grunted at her. 

“Oh, yeah? Well, what if I just call the cops? This is my place, and you can just fuck right off…”

Greg hoped her shrieky tirade would be loud enough to draw the attention of neighbours. _Please, please, please, have a nosy old lady next door._ No such luck; the neighbours, if they heard at all, responded by cranking up their music, a thumping African beat. He didn’t get to hear the end of the tirade, as those not immediately involved in the discussion dispersed as well as they could through the tiny flat. He himself was shoved along through a dingy kitchen; a tiny old lady with a terrified expression on her face sat at the table, frozen in place in the middle of chopping vegetables. _Shit, the old lady is right here._

Luis shoved him through a door into a crowded bedroom. 

“Fuck!” Greg couldn’t help but yelp as his elbow collided with the bedpost. 

“Shut it, you, or I’ll gag you. Might anyway.” _Lovely, that would just make this sooo much better._ Greg kept his mouth shut as Luis swept the pile of clothes off of a kitchen chair in the corner and shoved him into it. “Yo, Eddie, find something to tie him up with.” 

Eddie, who had followed them into the room, dug around through the wardrobe until he found a couple of pairs of leggings. “This work?” 

“Yeah, whatever. Give me the key to the cuffs.” 

Luis brandished his knife in Greg’s face again in an unspoken message before removing the cuff. Greg’s relief was short-lived as his arms were forced through the back slats of the chair and re-handcuffed behind. Eddie used the leggings to strap his ankles to the front legs of the chair. _Well, at least if I’m to be tied up, I’m not going to get rope burn. My shoulders are going to be killing me by morning, though...unless Mycroft gets me out of here before then…_

The chair wasn’t that heavy; he could pick it up and shuffle awkwardly with it on his back, but he’d never get far, seeing as he’d have to run the gauntlet of armed cartel members to make it to the only door. There was a window, but it was small and barred. 

Greg was left to his thoughts for a few minutes before the door opened again and Veronica was shoved in. She kicked the door as it shut behind her, and then turned and threw herself onto the bed.

“This is the shit I left Mexico to get _away_ from, you’d think another continent would be far enough, but _no_ , _claro que_ even here, they think they can just…” Veronica muttered angrily to herself. It didn’t appear to be aimed at him, Greg thought; she had thrown a fit about the invasion but seemed determined to ignore his existence. _Probably thinks it would be like making a pet of the chicken destined for Sunday dinner, if she did talk to me,_ Greg mused gloomily. 

*****

Time passed slowly, with Greg straining his ears to hear what was going on in the rest of the flat. Veronica had sulked for a few minutes and then went back out when she heard Alvarez ordering the grandmother to fix food for them. The thumping of the music next door was quieter in the bedroom, but still audible enough to make him feel like the knot on the back of his head from being clocked with a gun was trying to keep the beat with its throbbing. 

Due to the rough treatment while being cuffed to the chair, the gash in his arm had started to seep blood again, and the tiny trickle down the back of his bicep was maddening. He squirmed a bit, and finally managed to rub close enough to it on the back of the chair to curb the tickle. 

He was mentally planning a holiday to Paris with Mycroft to keep himself from more depressing thoughts when he heard a cheer from the kitchen. 

“Aw, Raul, you the best!” 

“Hey, Miggy, there’s beer!” 

“Here, put the rest in the fridge. Eh, toss the milk, we don’t need that.” 

Greg hoped that Raul had used a traceable credit card for his purchase. 

“Where the fuck did you park that it took you so long to get back?” 

“Eh, there’s a casino, probably a mile or so. Nobody’d think anything of a vehicle being parked there late at night.” 

“Oh, yeah? Well, I…” 

The speakers wandered off towards the sitting room and out of Greg’s hearing. _I wonder if this crowd getting drunk will be good for me or not...suppose it depends on if they’re angry drunks or not. Maybe they’ll get loud enough that somebody will call the cops…_ A loud thump and scraping noise came down from the flat above, followed by a herd of wild buffalo and a screeching parrot, or at least that’s what it sounded like. _...or maybe not. Besides, Raul probably couldn’t carry enough beer, without the van, to get all of them actually drunk._

 _Damn, I wish they’d share the beer._ His tongue was sticking to his teeth again. He swallowed experimentally. _Better to not think about it. So, on the second morning, we’ll take an early stroll through the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, leave a flower for Oscar Wilde, then stroll down to see Molière and Chopin...I wonder if a cat will follow us around like that one that time...won’t be the same one, that’s for sure. Christ, has it been twenty-five years since that trips with the lads? Heh, that time, we just went to have a smoke over Jim Morrison...that cat just stared at us…_

*****

He was deep into a contemplation of which collection at the Louvre would most interest Mycroft--the Michelangelo statues? The Egyptian hieroglyphics?--when the door swung open and the party spilled in. Eddie and...that one he hadn’t heard the name of yet...were laughing and shoving each other, followed by a newly pissed-off Veronica. 

“Don’t you dare. You fucking _pigs_.” 

“Aww, we’re just curious…have a beer, V’ronica, you’d be more fun…” 

“Arturo, hijo de tu puta madre…” 

Ah. Arturo, then. Whatever his name, he swung the beer in his hand, slopping a bit down Greg’s arm. _Damn...why couldn’t that have hit me in the face...can I bend my neck far enough to suck it out of the fabric...Christ, I’m really getting sad, here._

Eddie pulled open the wardrobe and started rummaging while Veronica glared and elaborated on just how much of an asshole he was. Greg decided to try his luck. 

“H...hey, Arturo.” His try throat almost didn’t work. “If you’re just going to slop that beer around, why don’t you share a bit with me?” 

“Oh, fuck, forgot you were back here. You’re just...just part of the chair!” Arturo giggled. _Christ, did someone go out for more beer? He’s pretty sloshed._ “I should just sit on you!” _The hell?_

Eddie popped his head out of the wardrobe to give Arturo a look. Arturo seemed to grasp he’d said something questionable, but shrugged it off. “Hehe...at least I wouldn’t squash you flat like Big Tony!” _That must be the big guy at the back...or, who knows with this crowd, they probably call some short bloke Big Tony just for kicks...nah, they’re not that smart. Christ, is he still giggling?_

“Heeere you go, amigo…” Arturo clumsily offered the beer, knocking the can into Greg’s nose and nearly dropping it. 

“I’d prefer it in my mouth and not up my nose, if it’s all the same to you.” 

“Hehe...you’re a funnnnny one!” 

He tipped the can again, this time in the general direction of Greg’s mouth. Greg tilted his head to catch as much as possible, but a good bit ran down his chin, as well. _This is rather humiliating, really, but at least I’m getting a drink._

The stream ended before Greg would have liked; Eddie popped up from his adventures in the bottom drawer to triumphantly hold up some lacy red knickers. 

“Ha! I _told_ Tony you wore thongs! I’m gonna go show ‘im!” 

“Don’t you dare, Eduardo Emilio! Vete a la verga culero!” 

Arturo trotted after them happily, Greg already forgotten.

 _Hmm...I think he’s staring at Eddie’s arse more than Veronica’s...let’s hope he passes out soon; I don’t want him to think about sitting on ME again. Now, I wouldn’t mind, I don’t think, if Mycroft were to sit in my lap...so, after we get back to the hotel from dinner at Le Meurice...and I’m sure with Mycroft along, we’ll have a fancy suite that’ll have nice chairs...I’ll sit down and give him my best ‘come hither’ look…_ Greg nearly giggled out loud. _He’ll get close enough that I’ll just reach out and pull him down. He’ll put his arms around my neck, and I’ll stroke down his side to the curve of his perfect arse...damn, he has a nice arse; I want to squeeze…_ _Christ. Time to think about something else. The last thing I need is for someone to come back here again and find me bursting out of my trousers._

*****

He must have dozed off at some point, despite his uncomfortable position, because he woke up when the tingling in his arms grew painful. Stretching and shaking his hands as well as could, he bit his lip as the feeling came back. 

Veronica and the grandmother were now both in the bed ( _how did I sleep through them coming in??),_ and, by the size of the lump, Big Tony was asleep in the floor by the door. The music next door had blessedly stopped; instead, he could hear lorries rumbling along some nearby road. 

The moon was now framed perfectly by the window, and Greg gazed up at the calm whiteness. _Will this be the last time I ever see the moon? They won’t need me anymore by tomorrow night. At least I’m getting one more good look._

Greg sighed. Well, if there was ever a time to be maudlin, this was it. _Where are they? Surely they’re looking for me...but what if Sally and the others never got out of the restaurant to raise the alarm? What if they’re still stuck in that freezer? What if they killed them after they took me out?_ Greg shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. _No...I didn’t hear gunshots, and there would have been more blood if they’d just stabbed someone before getting in the van, and there wasn’t time to beat them…_

_Surely, when none of us came back to the Yard and the uniformed officers weren’t reachable by radio for too long, the dispatcher sent someone to check on them?_

_What if NSY knows, but never told either Sherlock or Mycroft? But surely, the kidnapping of a detective would be big enough news that they would have heard about it by now. Unless Mycroft was in one of those top secret meetings..._

_I haven’t been able to leave many breadcrumbs. I should have made a break for it at the petrol station...maybe at least I’d have attracted someone’s attention by the time Luis stabbed me. God, I hope that camera was working. Even if it was, though, we drove for hours after that, some of it out in the countryside. They may have lost the van again. I think we were in Birmingham then, though, from the number plates I saw on the cars...we must have just been driving in circles around the city._

_It’s been at least a month since I’ve called my parents...they’re not getting any younger. I wish I’d taken more time to call...I don’t even remember what I said to them the last time we talked, and I probably won’t get another chance._

_And my team...have I...wait, what the fuck?_

“MMMmmmm….oh, baby, yeah…” The noise came from the opposite direction as the African music earlier. As Greg listened, he distinctly heard a woman’s voice squeal. 

“Yeah, yeah, come on, get it off…” 

_Chriiiiiist. Veronica has the worst neighbours. How does she ever get any sleep around here? She must have earplugs._

“Get on top...oh...oh...OH....please…” There was the unmistakable sound of a headboard hitting the wall. 

_For fuck’s sake._

It was some time before Greg was able to drift off into a fitful doze again. 

*****

The moon had risen beyond his view by the time Greg was startled awake by a loud growl from his stomach. 

_Yeah, yeah, don’t get your hopes up_ , he told it. He smacked his lips. The effect of the few swallows of beer he’d had was long gone, and he was violently thirsty again. He couldn’t even seem to produce enough saliva to swish around. 

His stomach hadn’t listened to his admonition; it was quite used to a meal being missed, but knew that if it threw enough of a fit, there was usually at least coffee or something from a vending machine to appease it. It gurgled loudly in the quiet room. 

Greg took the time, since he was awake anyhow, to move and stretch his arms as much as he could. Even so, his shoulders were starting to burn from being in the same position for so long, and they were going to be worse by morning. He tensed and released his glutes and his calf muscles several times. 

His mind was blessedly foggy from the poor sleep he’d had, so he didn’t muse about his mortality again with any specificity. He sat in a haze of pain and hunger and tiredness and what fear he couldn’t squash back. He finally fell into a light doze again, but woke to a touch to his arm. 

Startled, he would have knocked the chair over if he hadn’t been so close to the wall anyhow. 

“Oh, oh,” a soft voice cooed. It was the grandmother. She had a small bowl of rice and vegetables in her hand as she stooped over him. 

“Come, señor...eat.” She lifted a spoon to his mouth, and he opened gratefully. 

She continued to feed him small bites patiently, while mumbling to herself. 

“Estos estúpidos chicos ... siempre con la violencia ... bueno, voy a darle algo de comida, si eso es todo lo que puedo hacer…” 

_At least if I die today, I’ll be more comfortable until then,_ he thought as she left to return the evidence of her little rebellion to the kitchen. 

*****

It was still dark the next time Greg was conscious again. His sleepy brain fumbled over what had woken him. The door. It was the door to the flat being slammed. 

“The cops found the van; there are those people like on that CSI show all over it.” 

“Fuck! What the hell, Raul, I asked you to park it somewhere it wouldn’t get attention, not advertise where we are! Fuck, fuck, fuck...we’ve got to be at the plane at eight, or Antonio…”

“Ah, relax. The van was a mile away; they’re still poking around the casino looking for you. Also, I hotwired an SUV.” 

“Wait, what? Oh, well, that’s alright, then, unless the owner notices it gone and gets the cops looking for it!”

“Mmm...yeah, so we should probably get moving, then.” Raul still sounded unconcerned, in contrast to Alvarez’s hysterics. 

Greg found himself in a flurry of hands as the leggings were untied and the cuffs removed to free him from the chair. Eddie dropped the keys twice as he muttered, “Mierda...mierda….” The cuffs were refastened, thankfully for his aching shoulders, back in the front. He pulled to his feet before he’d quite got the blood flowing to he feets and stumbled into the end of the bed as he was pulled along. _Just what I needed, another bruise._

Veronica woke and lifted her head, but just glared at them without saying anything. 

Eddie didn’t bother with the jacket at this time of morning; there were some blokes hanging about down the street, but far enough that they didn’t notice that one of the silent men shoving into an SUV was a prisoner. 

He was squashed into the middle of the back seat between Arturo (who looked a bit queasy...Greg fervently hoped he wouldn’t end up with vomit on his shoes) and Luis (and Luis’s knife), so no hope of surreptitiously alerting a passing car out of the window. As Raul drove them cautiously through the quiet streets, the sky began to lighten. 

_Well, at least I didn’t die in Birmingham._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spanish sentences (fair warning; Veronica was pretty pissed off.):
> 
> hijo de tu puta madre: son of a bitch
> 
> Vete a la verga culero: fuck you asshole (Lit. go to a dick, asshole)
> 
> Estos estúpidos chicos ... siempre con la violencia ... bueno, voy a darle algo de comida, si eso es todo lo que puedo hacer …: Those stupid boys...always with the violence...well, I’m going to give him something to eat, if that’s all I can do. 
> 
> [Please correct me if I’m wrong. My Spanish is very rusty.]
> 
> Okay, so THANK YOU SO MUCH for your patience with this long delay in posting, and especially to all of you who expressed kind wishes towards my grandmother. She's recovering well from her surgery, by the way. I'm glad I got to spend some time with both her and my grandfather. 
> 
> So, life has been insane the last couple of weeks. While I was sitting with my grandmother in recovery before she was released after her surgery, the clinic where my grandfather does dialysis called; he'd become dizzy and disoriented and was in no shape to drive himself home. They'd already called my uncle, though, and he was on the way to pick him up. Everyone was on full-on "I told you so!" mode; my grandmother had tried to get him to ride in with us that morning, and my uncle had offered to drive him twice, but he had insisted on driving himself. The phrase "stubborn old goat" was uttered more than once (lovingly, of course). 
> 
> It turned out that he was so confused and disoriented by the time my uncle arrived that he took him right over to the ER. So, my grandmother and I left the outpatient surgery end of the hospital and drove around to the other side and went right back in, because of course she insisted on seeing him herself (and honestly, I'm glad she did; she knew a lot more medical history and such than we did). Eventually, I took her home and my uncle stayed, and then later we swapped out and I went back up to sit with Papa. He was fussing when I got back that they kept asking him questions to see how confused he still was. "They keep asking me what month it is! I know full well what month it is--March!" I gave him a weird look. "January. February. MARCH!" (It was January 30th). They tested everything, but nothing seemed to be abnormal and he gradually felt better, so I took him home. 
> 
> He wasn't quite back to normal for a couple of days, and my grandmother couldn't walk very much at all without pulling at her stitches, so I'm glad I was there to do all the cooking and cleaning and such. My uncle lives with them, too, but he was grateful for the help. Elderly people are a lot of work! But I love them, and I got to play six games of cards with Nanny and learn all about distributor caps on cars from Papa (thought that might be useful, until my uncle told me my car doesn't even have a distributor). 
> 
> AND THEN. (Sorry, this note is going to be longer than the actual story; feel free to skip, I'm just venting and making excuses as to why I'm so late posting). This is the busiest time of year at work (I work for an insurance and finance company, and it's tax season) anyhow, and then they announced the entire department I work in is being relocated to Michigan (I live in Tennessee). So, people will either have to move or lose their jobs. So, much drama. I feel terrible for many of my colleagues who have been with the company for years. They've given us several months of warning, though.
> 
> For me personally, it's actually going to work out okay because I was planning to leave in August anyhow. They are giving us very nice separation bonuses, so that will be a bonus I wouldn't have had if I had just quit on my own. It makes me nervous, though, not having the safety net of continuing my current job if the move I'm hoping to make in August doesn't work out. 
> 
> SO, sorry for the rant. I've hardly had time to work on this, and what little time I had I was not in a good frame of mind to focus on it. The next three chapters are already written, though, so hopefully, there won't be any more long gaps like this! Thank you for your patience! You are all wonderful!


	16. June 2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for angst ahead. Yup, we've reached Reichenbach.

_**June 2011** _

Greg found out piece by piece, in a slow-moving avalanche of horror. He was still reeling from the events of the night before--Donovan, the commissioner, the order to arrest Sherlock, Sherlock and John escaping into the night. Sherlock and John, who he considered friends as well as coworkers, were fugitives, and he was locked into a bitter disagreement with both his superior and subordinate at work. The tension in the office was almost unbearable, with he and Donovan trying to ignore each other’s existence and the rest of the officers uneasy at best and openly glaring at whoever had taken a different side from them at worst. He couldn’t believe Donovan hadn’t had any holes burned in her jacket from the unrelenting gaze of Constable Williams, who was new to the department and still quite starstruck with Sherlock. 

And as if enough pressure wasn’t grinding down on him from outside, his own mind could not stop. He _knew_ Sherlock wasn’t a fraud. He _knew_ the situation with Moriarty had been escalating--and he’d seen the bastard in the courtroom, mocking the world, and he’d been present for every bit of the mess with the pips and the explosives. He wasn’t sure how just yet, but somehow Moriarty had to be involved in this. Somehow he just had to find _proof_ , something the commissioner would believe, to clear Sherlock’s name. But everything...everything was stacked against Sherlock today. He’d been scrambling all day, pulling up paperwork, reports, fielding calls from media and officers either wanting to be helpful or wanting to gloat. 

And to make matters worse, he could not reach Mycroft. All of these years of watching his brother from behind the camera, meeting with Lestrade for updates on Sherlock’s work...and today, in this mess, he wasn’t available? He might be in top secret governmental meetings, but surely sometime in the last eighteen hours _somehow_ his staff would have gotten word to him. 

Mycroft wasn’t answering his phone or responding to texts or emails. Anthea wasn’t either; there _must_ be a crisis if that woman missed a text. 

He was slamming the phone down after yet another increasingly angry voicemail on Mycroft’s phone when he heard a call out come over the police dispatch scanner--reports of a shot being fired in the vicinity of St Bart’s. Odd neighbourhood for a firearm call, but nothing to say it had anything to do with the Sherlock situation. Somehow it still gave him another prickle of unease. He turned to his computer to check the status of the arrival of evidence from key cases Sherlock had worked he’d requested to be reviewed. 

A few minutes later, there was a report of a jumper, possible suicide. Location: St. Bart’s. What is going _on_ down there? Maybe Moriarty had finally cracked, ended it before Sherlock could turn this all around on him (and he didn’t doubt Sherlock could). Christ, he’d hated being part of the fiasco at Baker Street last night. He probably should have recused himself as being too close, too compromised by his friendship with Sherlock, but he’d went along hoping to be a voice of reason, to try to keep things from getting out of hand. Maybe, for him, Sherlock would go along, cooperate until things were straightened out---because of course they would be--but who was he kidding? Sherlock had never in his life done anything the easy way. 

He lived in fear of his phone records being reviewed; if this didn’t get cleared up quickly he’d lose his job for sending a warning. But it was a witch hunt, and those tended to turn bad fast, everyone involved caught up in adrenaline and emotion without waiting for facts. 

Minutes passed somehow. Damn it, _where_ was Mycroft?? 

He glanced out the floor. The nervous energy seemed to be reaching a new high; he fancied a malevolent wind was swirling among the desks born by whispers and looks. He had that feeling of impending...something, something not good, but _impending_. The police scanner crackled to life with a report of something-or-other at a hotel in Islington, and then a domestic violence situation unfolding in Brixton. 

He glanced out the window into the sunny afternoon, then back towards his door. All movement seemed to have stopped, and he felt that everyone’s eyes were staring right at him, except for Donovan, who was staring deliberately at her desk, not twitching a muscle. It was Williams, the new young constable, only just risen high enough to have a desk at all, who was the bravest of them all. 

She had been at her desk when the whispering started, and when they reached her had gone completely still, before standing up so quickly she knocked her pen to the floor and hurried over to accost some officers who had just come out of the lifts. Lestrade, absorbed with his own frustration, had registered this out of the corner of his eye but didn’t have any mental capacity left to analyze it. He felt like screaming at the officers staring at his door, at him, but most of them already thought him dangerously addled from his association with Sherlock. He twitched and glanced down at the mobile he was squeezing in his hand. Nothing. No messages. 

“Sir?” 

He looked up. Take a deep breath, act normally. “Williams. What can I do for you?” 

“May I come in?” 

“Of course, of course.” He circled his desk to stand behind it and gestured towards a chair. She didn’t take it. 

“I...I don’t know how…” She started crying, but sniffed and held her head up. “Sir, it’s Sherlock. I know you are friends.” 

Lestrade nodded rather impatiently and ran his hand through his hair. Williams sniffed again and then steeled herself. 

“He’s...he’s dead, sir.” 

Lestrade dropped into his chair. His mind was blank. Dead? What does it mean, dead? Nothing. Someone is dead. Pain? No, nothing. Numb. The woman in front of him is speaking again. 

“He...jumped. At St. Bart’s.” 

His brain swirled back to life. _Sherlock?_ Committing suicide? Honestly, he wouldn’t have been shocked back then, back when the darkness and the manic need for stimulation were being drowned out by cocaine. Oh, probably not intentionally, but just pushing a little too far, an overdose...it would have been easy, on a night when his mind was tearing itself apart, to just...stop caring. But he never had; he’d clawed his way out with spite and stubbornness. But now-now, with plenty of cases, with the game on, with _John_? 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

He pulled himself out of his head. “Thank you...thank you for telling me, Williams.” 

“Can I...get you anything? Water? Coffee?” 

He sucked in a breath and stood up. “No, no, but thanks. I...I’m going to get some air.” 

She nodded and retreated, snagging a tissue from the corner of his desk to dab her eyes as she left the office. As he put on his jacket, he glanced around, avoiding catching anyone’s eye. No one else was in tears; the expressions were of either shock or poorly disguised glee, both sides ready to burst into speculation and rants about _this_ either proving or disproving their opinion of the man. He couldn't hear it. He couldn’t listen to his friend’s life being analyzed to shreds. Phone. Wallet. Badge. Keys. 

The quiet of the elevator was hateful. _Dead_. The point of no return. There had been hope, surely something would come up, something could be worked out, eventually. He could be in problem-solving mode. But now. Dead. Nothing to be done, no way to take it back, just _no._

He was halfway to the Diogenes Club before he consciously decided where he was going. As his own initial shock began to fade, his first thought was Mycroft. This was his _brother_. His brother he had worked so hard to _protect._ Had he, too, been scrambling all day, trying to help, trying to fix this, and was now numb? He didn’t know if Mycroft would be at the club; he could be anywhere, but his car seemed to be pointed in that direction of its own volition. Greg had siblings, friends, coworkers--well, surely _some_ of them believed him; who did Mycroft have? He would be strong for his parents, strong for the world. Anthea, surely, would try to help, but, in the end, she _was_ an employee. 

His brain only had one thought now: GET TO MYCROFT. 

In a haze he somehow navigated the protocol of gaining entrance to the Diogenes and found himself at the door of Mycroft’s office there. He didn’t even know why he’d assumed Mycroft would be there rather than his bunker-like office in Whitehall. He knocked before he even thought about what he was going to say or do. 

The door opened. Instead of calling for him to come in, Mycroft walked over and let him in, gesturing that he was allowed to enter. He didn’t speak. Greg didn’t either. 

The chill in the room was palpable. He was too late; Mycroft’s face as he reached the desk and turned was frozen into the mask of the Iceman. 

“You’ve heard?” 

“Yes, but, Mycroft, I...is it, is...he’s really? 

Mycroft looked at the fireplace. “My brother jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s. It is true.” 

Greg sucked in a breath. It wasn’t that he hadn’t believed it before, but. He hadn’t realized a small part of him had still been hoping that the report was a mistake, malicious gossip, he was injured but not dead--and now that small part crumbled. 

“Oh, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft’s shoulder twitched and he turned to face Greg. His eyes had become slowly warmer, allowing a little bit of mischief to show now and then, over the years as they’d shared meals and crime scene-side chats, but in that moment they were blank, cold, harder than they’d been even at the very beginning. “I appreciate you coming to me for confirmation. As we have learned today, gossip and speculation are dangerous tools.”

“Of course, Myc, I came straight here. I had to see you.” 

Mycroft nodded sharply, then looked away. “Anthea will send you the details of the funeral once they are in place; I assume you will want to be in attendance.”

“What...oh, of course, but wh…”

“Thank you for your support of my brother over the past several years; I know he held you in high esteem.” 

“Yes, I know...he constantly rolled his eyes and called me simple-minded whenever I missed something at a crime scene, but he complained even more when he had to work with someone else. Best of a bad lot, maybe, but...yeah.” Greg was rambling out of nerves. He straightened his back. 

“I...last night.” He didn’t bother explaining the events of the night before; Mycroft always knew. “I should have done more, I shouldn’t have backed down…I’ve spent all day ordering files and evidence to prove that the cases he worked couldn’t have been frauds, but if I’d just realized how...” Greg pinched his nose. 

“The decision was taken out of your hands. You gave him warning, and were taking every step to…” For a moment, he saw Mycroft, his friend, wanting to lessen his pain. But then he saw the facade fall again, and braced himself. 

“Although, your control of your subordinates has certainly left much to be desired. You should have had a better grasp of the mutiny brewing under your watch. I suggest that your time would be better utilized returning to your reexamination of evidence to exonerate my brother’s work, as little comfort as doing so posthumously may bring.” 

_Ouch. His first thought was to comfort me, but now he’s just trying to push me away before his control of his emotions cracks._

“Of course; you know that will be my top priority.” Greg kept his voice light and tried to inject as much warmth as possible, rather than the cool reply the man would certainly expect after his harsh reprimand. 

“I’m sure you understand that I have much business to attend to in this situation; I must, therefore, cut short this meeting, although your condolences are appreciated.”

Greg thought he ought to feel hurt at the formality, at being pushed aside like a mere acquaintance, but he understood Mycroft rather well by now. It did not surprise him that Mycroft reacted in this way. Retreat behind a facade of stone, throw up the walls, shut down all emotions, and work himself to death. He’d leave it for today, but he had a fight ahead of him. Mycroft could be cruel, would be, to remain stoic and in control, but Greg hadn’t given up on Sherlock when he was (still is... _was_ ) impossible; he wouldn’t back down from Mycroft now. 

“Yes, I know you have much to do. But you know I will help with anything--the funeral, the media if there’s anything I _can_ do, or just to share a scotch. Just call me. I’ll go now, but I’ll see you again soon.” 

*****

The funeral was awful. Instead of the gentle, cool rain that always seems to accompany funerals in the movies, the day was cloudless and one of the hottest days of the summer. The small crowd sweated in their formal, sombre clothing, physical discomfort adding irritation to grief. By the time the last words were said, John seemed to be propping Mrs Hudson up, or was it the other way around? Both seemed too numb to have any interest in further condolences being offered. That doctor friend from Barts--Mike?--that he’d found quietly keeping John company when he’d arrived at the morgue on that awful day was plying Molly with a bottle of water; she’d cried straight through the proceedings and in this heat must be dehydrated by now. A large Italian man blew his nose noisily in the back. Others, a few officers and clients Greg recognized and a few he didn’t, milled about awkwardly before wandering off one by one until Mycroft, his ever-present PA, John, and Mrs Hudson were left. 

Anthea gently suggested that John take Mrs Hudson home when they both showed signs of being unable to decide what they ought to do next, and herded them into the closest black car. “...and when you get there, have a nice cup of tea, and some of the casserole Mrs Turner left in the refrigerator.” Greg shared a sad smile with her as he assisted by shutting the car door after them. Good head on her shoulders, that one, understanding their states of mind and giving them a concrete list of what to do next. Creepy she knew what was in Mrs Hudson’s fridge, of course, but they were too far gone to think of that. 

She settled quietly into the other black car, leaving Mycroft to stare at the dirty rectangle surrounded by trampled grass for as long as he liked. Greg stood back, but didn’t leave. While he was hiding it better, he couldn’t imagine Mycroft to be in a much better state than John and Mrs Hudson had been. 

As soon as Mycroft snapped out of his reverie and stalked toward the car, Greg followed. Without a word, he climbed in after Mycroft. This, at least, got the man’s attention. 

“Detective Inspector?” Mycroft quirked a brow. _Lovely, titles again._

“Mycroft.” _I’m not playing that game_ , Greg thought. “I’m coming back with you, and we’re going to have a drink, and then I’m going to make sure you eat.” Anthea had had the right idea with the others, after all. 

“That will hardly be necessary. I have important matters to attend to, and…” 

“Nope. They’ll wait until you’ve had some food. And a kip wouldn’t hurt you either; I know you Holmeses think I’m unobservant but I can tell when someone hasn’t been sleeping.” 

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest further, but was quelled by a glare from Anthea. As he jerked his head around to glare angrily out of the window, she gave Greg a careful nod. He was doing the right thing. 


	17. His Best Friend

The camera blocked by construction equipment outside of the parking garage turned out to be a serious detriment. Beckett and Banes scoured footage from nearby intersections and found no less than four plain white vans without rear windows that could possibly hold Alvarez, his men, and Lestrade, and that was assuming that Sherlock’s deductions that it was another large van were correct. Worse, only two of them had a clear shot of the number plate. Mycroft called in favours to bring in further technicians, assigning a couple of agents to each of the white vans.

“Sir! I have Van 3 exiting the M25 at Waltham Abbey. Went straight at the roundabout...still tracking…”

“The agents you sent to the property in Hounslow reported that the building has not been accessed for at least a month.” 

“I have Van 3 on the Stewardstone Road camera…” 

“The financial records of the cartel do not show a large-scale operation in London, but Interpol suspects that Alvarez may have been sent to scout out the drug scene and look for openings.” 

“Van 3 has stopped! Tyre shop on Brooker Road!” 

“Send a team.” Anthea nodded and made the call. 

“The van pulled into a garage...no view of the driver or any passengers.” 

“Alvarez is the nephew of the head of the cartel, who has no sons. His older brother, Antonio Alvarez, is believed to be in line to take over the operation when Turtullo dies. 

“I have Van 2 exiting the M40 onto the M25, heading west.” 

“According to intelligence chatter, last year Armando Alvarez managed a smuggling operation in Tijuana that was raided by the DEA and cost the cartel several men.” 

“Van 3 was a bust. Agents infiltrated the tyre shop; everyone present was a long-time employee. The back of the van was full of built-in tool cabinets and boxes of supplies, more than what could have been loaded before the agents arrived. No sign that anyone other than the driver and one passenger was ever in the van.” 

This was what Mycroft _did_. He was a master of taking in massive amounts of information, analyzing, planning, directing, manipulating the odds. But never had it been so personal. Usually, even in a dire situation, he felt a bit of a private thrill when obtaining information was a challenge, and incoming data just honed his focus. Now each new piece of information caused a spike of hope, and then a wave of despair when it turned out not to be the piece that led straight to Gregory. 

_THINK. These miscreants cannot outmanoeuvre the combined resources of MI5 and NSY. FIND THE MISTAKE. Oh, Gregory, I’m going to have a tracker put on you after this._

*****

Mycroft was startled from his perusal of the dossiers that had been assembled on the cartel members who had been seen in proximity to the disused restaurant by a shout from Agent Banes. 

“Got something, sir!” Banes twisted in his chair to give Mycroft a grin. 

Mycroft decided to hold off on returning the grin until seeing just what the man had found. 

“I expanded the facial recognition to include other cities when there were no hits in London. Portsmouth was a bust, but look at this footage from Birmingham!” He popped the feed onto the big screen. 

The camera was focused on the forecourt of a BP Petrol station. Mycroft watched as a plain white van pulled away from a pump to back into a parking spot next to the skip at the back of the station. He found himself holding his breath as he waited for something to happen.

There. Movement at the back. Two men popped out and made their way inside the building. The van rocked slightly as others moved around inside before the back door swung upon again and one...two...three sets of feet appeared. The first peered around the door, and once he was satisfied that no one was paying them any attention, pulled the second behind the skip. It was on the edge of the screen, but Mycroft sucked in a breath as he saw a flash of silver hair. 

Gregory seemed to be looking around while trying not to draw attention to the fact. There. He locked on to the camera and turned his head to present the clearest shot of his face that he could. 

“There! That’s what triggered the facial recognition. Still got his wits about him, this one.” 

“Good work, Banes.” 

Mycroft kept his eyes on Gregory’s face. Even at this distance, he could tell that the D.I. had not given up. He was wary, but stood straight and kept his head up. Long before he was ready to break eye contact, Gregory was shoved back towards the van and disappeared inside.

He let out his breath. _Gregory, you brilliant man. Keep leaving me breadcrumbs. I will find you, and when I do…_

“What time was this? Trace the number plate. Anthea, have a team in Birmingham prepared to move as soon as we have a location. For that matter, alert the team in Manchester to be on standby in case they continue to make their way north.”

Back to work. Gregory was still alive, but what would they do with him once they reached their destination? 

Now that the van had been identified, the agents assigned to the other possible vans were redirected to facial recognition searches in Liverpool, Manchester, and Sheffield, as well as attempting to tracking the number plate of the correct van. Unfortunately, after the petrol station, the van drove straight back out of the city, and Banes lost it near Tamworth. 

*****

“I’ve got the van! Grove Park roundabout, in Leicester!” 

Mycroft dropped the file he’d been reading on the table, and moved to watch as Beckett’s feed was transferred to the main screen. He only had the briefest glimpse of the van before it moved out of the view of the current camera, but fifty-eight long seconds late it reappeared as Beckett switched to the next camera. He hardly dared blink as the van merged onto Lubbesthorpe Way, heading north. 

“Agents in the area? Local police?” he barked out without shifting his eyes. 

“On it, sir,” Anthea called out from somewhere behind him. He could hear the officers at NSY over the video feed scrambling to contact their counterparts in Leicester. 

Mycroft watched as the van passed a Pizza Hut. His fists clenched as the van blinked out of view in the underpass of the A5460, even though logically there was no way for the van to disappear again in the sixty feet and four seconds before it emerged on the other side. Another minute passed. 

“Where are…”

“Enroute. Closest panda car is 2.5 minutes away.” Anthea anticipated his question. 

“Van’s turning…” 

“Meridian Way.” Agent Yates had a map pulled up and was following the route. “...leads back out of town.” 

“Come on...come on...fuck. That’s it; there’s not another camera in that direction for four miles.” 

Mycroft barely restrained himself from reaching out towards the screen as if he could grab the van and keep it from disappearing into the distance from the last traffic camera on the edge of town. He just kept staring at the empty road as his well-trained agents scrambled to form a plan. 

“How many possible turns could they make?” 

“Here...expanding the map...they will have to go either north or south on Beggars Lane unless they turn down Lubbesthorpe Bridle Road, but it’s little more than a barely-paved path...” 

“Where are they _headed_?” 

“They could be taking rural roads to get to Sheffield?” 

“If they’re headed for an airport, they’ve passed up the ones in London and Birmingham...Humberside, maybe?” 

Just then, two panda cars sped through the view of the last camera that was still up on the screen, sirens blaring. Three minutes and forty-seven seconds behind the van, if Mycroft had calculated correctly.

“Get agents, local police, whoever is in the area to follow all possible routes. The van will be following the posted speed limits to avoid unwanted attention.” Anthea and a couple of the other agents immediately grabbed phones to pass along his instructions. 

_It should be quite easy to overtake them before they make too many turns. Gregory will be recovered soon. Unless they kill him out of spite as soon as they realize they are surrounded. No, it would be in their best interest at that point to be charged with kidnapping instead of the murder of an officer. But are they intelligent enough to realize that?_

Mycroft set his expression to betray no emotion as he glared at the map, calculating distances and probabilities that they would take each possible turning. 

_It will be over soon._

*****

“There are officers combing the area! _How_ have they not yet sighted the van? Complete incompetence!” Mycroft’s neutral expression was slipping. 

“Yes, sir.” Agent Yates ducked her head but didn't flinch. “There was a car at the intersection of Hinckley and Kirby before the van could have feasibly passed through. Another car drove north from the M1 up B582; they should have passed the van if it was headed south. Assuming the van is still following the speed limit, the officers who followed on Meridian should have been able to overtake them by now if they took the A47.” 

Mycroft whirled to address Anthea. “I want agents combing the area searching for anywhere they might have pulled off the road before reaching one of the checkpoints.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

He felt like stomping his feet in frustration. They were _so close_ , and yet, the van had slipped right through his fingers. He would have to formulate a logistics plan for installing further cameras on rural routes; this was absolutely unacceptable. 

“At least they’re giving us a good chase!” Banes was excellent with the CCTV system, but many years down in this basement spying from a distance had not improved his ability to read the mood of the room.

Agent Beckett shot him a glare, but he missed it and rattled on. “Alright then, I’ve got the feeds from Leicester Forest East and High Street in Desford streaming...Kirkby Mallory, up next.” 

Mycroft just grunted an acknowledgement and continued analyzing the zoomed-out map, trying to postulate possible destinations. For a few minutes, no one spoke as they focused on their various tasks. 

Banes broke the silence again. “Maybe the MET should start dressing their inspectors in red and white stripes if we’re going to be playing Where’s Waldo with them.” He chuckled at his own wit.

Normally, the IT crew were a fairly sarcastic bunch, and light banter to relieve the tension in tense situations was not unheard of. But usually, Mr Holmes and his rather terrifying PA were just calling down for information instead of watching over their shoulders. The rest of the crew understood this distinction, but Banes was not known for being particularly socially aware. 

“Remember that one time, that French guy we were tracking, who…” he rambled on as he searched for car park cameras that had a view of the road. 

Mycroft was already on the verge of snapping out of frustration and was certainly not in the mood to joke. He whirled around without a word and stepped out into the hallway before he could lose control. 

Anthea watched him go and pursed her lips. As soon as the door closed, she stood and stepped over to Banes just as Beckett was kicking his chair. 

“Inappropriate, Banes.” 

“Ah, just trying to lighten it up in here.” Banes had no sense of self-preservation, apparently; most people (John Watson being another notable exception) shuffled their feet and looked at the ground when Anthea turned her frostiest expression on them, but he wasn’t looking at her as he fiddled with the camera feeds. “If this van keeps pinging on cameras in smalls towns, it’ll be like a game of whack-a-mole.” 

Anthea cleared her throat menacingly and he finally glanced up and cringed at the laser beams emanating from her eyes. 

“Please remain professional. While the kidnapping of a high-level New Scotland Yard inspector by an internationally known crime syndicate would be an incident worthy of our attention at any time…” she paused and twisted her lips as she considered whether to continue. Mycroft liked to be mysterious, but at this point, she was more concerned with his emotional equilibrium. “...this is personal.” 

“Personal?” 

“The Detective Inspector is Mr Holmes’s closest friend, and as such, he is naturally very concerned for his welfare.” 

“He-- _Mr. Holmes--_ has a best friend?” Banes had bought the Ice Man persona completely, and he didn’t bother to keep the flabbergasted look off of his face. 

“Shut up...shut up...shut up…” Beckett mumbled while kicking his clueless colleague’s chair again.

“He does,” Anthea hissed.“And you had best cut the jokes and _find him_ if you don’t want to be the IT guy for the outpost on Tristan da Cunha by Monday.” 

*****

In the hallway, Mycroft scrubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. He needed some air before he lost his temper and started flogging his agents until they delivered Gregory to him. Knowing Anthea, she was probably sorting Banes out while he was out of earshot, so at least there would be no more flippant remarks to tempt him. _Oh, Gregory...how did I not see until so recently what you have come to mean to me? How can I..._

“Brother.” 

Mycroft looked up to find Sherlock and John stepping out of the elevator. John gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

“Sherlock...John.” He nodded in return. “I needed a moment to think in quiet.” 

“Any updates since our last check-in?” Sherlock, thankfully, was too focused on the case to question catching his brother showing emotion. Then again, he cared for Lestrade, too, and the events of the past years had tempered his disdain for sentiment. 

“The van was sighted on CCTV cameras on the outskirts of Leicester thirty-five minutes ago, but almost immediately turned back onto a rural road with no cameras. Local police and what agents we have in the area are driving possible routes, hoping to overtake them. It’s nearly inconceivable that they should slip through, but that appears to be what is happening.”

Sherlock nodded. “We located various people who have been in recent contact with Alvarez, but none had any information relevant to his current plans. It does appear that his position in the cartel is due to his familial connections and not to his own merit or achievements.” 

“Yeah, the general consensus is that he’s rather a useless idiot, but everyone toadies to him because of his uncle,” John added. 

Mycroft sighed. “Idiot or not, he’s currently managing to stay one step ahead of both our surveillance and NSY’s investigation.” 

An uptick in the noise level inside the room caught their attention, and Sherlock and John followed him inside. 

“Update.” 

“We just had a sighting of the van on the security camera of a car dealership in Hinckley.” 

The location had already been marked on the map that had now been promoted to one of the large screens on the side wall. Southwark. The Stratford International Car Park by the Olympic Stadium. A petrol station on the edge of Birmingham. A brief foray into Leicester. Hinckley. 

“They seem to be doubling back to Birmingham...or just driving in circles to fuck with us.” 

Neither Holmes brother bothered to respond to John with a customary “obviously,” but all three stood looking at the map thoughtfully for a few moments. 

“Sherlock…”

“Yes. I assume you have a car ready.”

“A helicopter. An agent will meet you with a car when you land.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Come along, John.” 

Mycroft’s attention turned to a report on Anthea’s laptop as they left. He wanted to go drive the backroads of Leicestershire himself, to be the one to find them and pull Gregory out of that van, but, ever practical, he knew he would be able to do more managing incoming intelligence from here, at least until they had a better idea of Alvarez’s ultimate destination. He felt marginally better knowing that his brother would soon be within a few miles of his (his? please, let him be mine; _I want him back_ ) Gregory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late again. :( To make up for it, tomorrow I'll be posting a really long chapter. 
> 
> Does anyone else go down google map rabbit holes while writing? It would have been all the same for most of my readers if I'd just made up names of random towns, but no, I know exactly which BP station and car dealership and Pizza Huts I am referring to. There's a country lane near Leicester that would be perfect for bicycling. That tyre shop mentioned towards the beginning has a whole parking lot of white vans, so no wonder they got excited. I had a nice wander through Hinckley on streetview; has anyone ever eaten at Fish and Chicks? It sounds rather greasy and terrible. ...Someone take the maps away from me.


	18. June 2011-April 2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is very long; I hope you don't mind too much. I originally wrote this and chapter 16 as one chapter, but once I realized that just that chapter was over 10k I decided to split it up. It didn't split very evenly, though.

_**June 2011-April 2012** _

It was two weeks after the funeral, and Mycroft appeared to be making a good start on the working-himself-to-death-to-avoid-thinking that Greg had foreseen. _Not on my watch_ , Greg thought. Four days, five calls, fifty-eight texts to Mycroft and three texts to Anthea later, Mycroft finally agreed to meet him for dinner. 

“Gregory. Despite the fact that I am extremely busy with pressing matters that have an impact on the well-being of the commonwealth, apparently it has become necessary to explain to you in person the seriousness of my time commitments, as it appears that you are unable to understand the concept when the message is delivered by means of phone or text…”

“Mycroft. Sit down. I’ve already poured your glass of wine.” 

Mycroft accepted it grumpily, and, while quieter and less personal than he had been with Greg before his brother’s death, he did make it through the meal with only five insults, and even managed to eat most of his entree. 

Greg watched him closely. He’d read quite a few books on psychology over the years; a better understanding of the way the mind works was always useful in his line of work, and was fascinating besides. Since the funeral, when he had a hard time getting to sleep, which was unfortunately frequently, he’d been reading extensively about grief, and not just about the five stages. Though, thinking of stages, he himself was still in a mix of the first two, denial and anger. It still didn’t seem quite real that Sherlock wouldn’t just swan in at any time; he’d not seen him for longer than this several times. It hit him, _Sherlock’s dead_ , like a slap to the back of the head, several times a day. 

And the anger, oh, that was coming in strong. He still avoided speaking with Donovan any more than strictly necessary, afraid that if he started he’d end up yelling. He was angry with the press, and several newspapers had landed in the bin in his kitchen in a rather shredded state. He was angry with Mycroft for not foreseeing this, for all he pretended to be omnipotent, and with John, though he tried to push it down, for being the person closest to Sherlock and not realizing that he was suicidal. He was angry with himself for not having done, well, just _more_. 

But Mycroft...Greg chewed his steak and watched his friend carefully. He’d seen Mycroft in quite a few states of mind over the years. He seemed...stressed, worried...but not hopeless or depressed. Something about his act of sadness pinged something in Greg’s mind. Of course, grief affects everyone differently, and he knew better than to judge someone’s love for the deceased based on how they mourned, but still... And why had he thought of it as an act of sadness? Of course he was sad. Oh, well, he probably wasn’t in a good state of mind himself to really understand anyone else’s grief at this point. 

*****

Over the next three months, they resumed having dinner together at least every other week. Twice Mycroft tried to get out of it, pleading work, but Greg just rescheduled for the next night, and when Mycroft baulked, resumed the deluge of texts and calls. Anthea proved an invaluable resource; Mycroft's excuses fell flat if Greg had already checked his schedule with his PA before proposing a meet-up. 

As Greg expected, Mycroft remained stoic and emotionless for weeks. Gone was the friendly banter that had become normal between them; Mycroft had turned into (back into?) a block of solid ice. His words were sharp and cutting, and he was constantly unavailable, pushing anyone who was not absolutely necessary for his position out of his way. Greg dug his heels in and refused to let the glacier move him. 

As much as he pretended he didn’t, Mycroft needed a friend. He _had_ cared deeply for his brother, and his insults only told Greg how much he must be hurting. As a detective and as a close associate of Sherlock Holmes, Greg had thicker skin than most and was better at reading people than he generally got credit for, and the mixed emotions he was picking up on were odd. Almost as if he was shamming one emotion to cover up another, still negative, emotion. Did he think that Greg would judge him for how he grieved?

He got the feeling that Mycroft thought he ought to push him away, to avoid him, but couldn’t quite bear to do so. That was an odd thought. Why was Mycroft keeping up with a friendship that he seemed to feel almost _guilty_ about continuing? Why did he think he shouldn’t spend time with Greg? Was it survivor’s guilt, feeling that enjoying himself meant that he wasn’t grieving his brother properly? Did he really resent Greg’s part in the events leading to Sherlock’s death, but had told himself that he had forgiven all? 

Greg wondered if it would be easier for Mycroft if he left him alone to pour himself into his work. Sherlock had been the catalyst for their relationship; surely seeing Greg brought up a lot of memories both good and bad. And he might have stepped back and given Mycroft space if he’d thought he had any other friends to lean on, but he knew there were few people that Myc really trusted enough to let down his guard, and most of those were family (even worse than Greg as far as memories go) and colleagues (and no matter how well-liked, there were lines not to be crossed). Surely being drug out to socialize with Greg, memories and all, was better than isolation. 

Besides...maybe Greg’s reluctance to back away had a hint of selfishness. He had come to respect the man and liked him both when he was being prickly and sounded like a vocabulary lesson and when he was smirking over a shared joke. He smiled sadly to himself remembering the silly dialogues they’d come up with making fun of Sherlock and John. Would he ever hear Mycroft laugh like that again? At least part of the reason that he insisted on staying in Mycroft’s life was that he would miss him. When had he grown so fond of the poncy bastard? 

*****

“I saw John today…” Greg started hesitantly.

Mycroft sighed. “And how was Dr Watson?” 

“He...I don’t think he’s sleeping much, and he’s lost at least a stone.” 

“At least. I would estimate a stone and a half.” 

“And with your Holmes eyes, your estimate is probably closer than mine. When did you see John?”

“Well, I haven’t seen him in person since about a week...after. He feels that I was remiss in not finding a way to...remove...Moriarty when he was in custody after the incident at the Tower. Direct communication with me seems to only agitate him further, so I’ve decided to maintain a certain distance, as I would like to remain in possession of all of my teeth.” 

“Ah. Probably wise at this point.” John wasn’t the type to communicate emotions easily, and Greg had seen enough men like him to understand that unexpressed emotions often end up coming out in a show of anger, whatever the original feelings had been. “So, if you didn’t see him in person, then you’re spying on him.”

“Not _spying_ , Gregory. But...monitoring, yes.” 

“And the difference is?” 

Mycroft sighed again. “My brother was quite...fond...of the doctor. You know better than most the difficulties Sherlock had in maintaining close companions. It may be maudlin of me, but I feel that in his absence, I should at least keep abreast of his _friend’s_ mental state and general safety.” 

“Yeah...and his mental state is not so good.” 

“No, it is not. I…” Mycroft seemed to be coming to a decision about what to say. “I may be overstepping by sharing information shared with me in confidence, but I feel that in this situation I would be risking more by not speaking.” 

“Out with it. You know you can trust me if something needs to be kept quiet.” 

“Sherlock told me that he believes--and you know his skill at seeing the signs--that Dr Watson was suicidal when they met.”

“Ah.” Greg thought back to when he had first met John. He’d seemed fine with Sherlock, but he _had_ been coming off a long convalescence, was living on a pittance, had lost his career, and didn’t appear to have a lot of close friends, although Greg had assumed that was just because he’d been away in Afghanistan for so long and all his friends were still there. Not that that had helped him at the time, though. And there was the gun…He glanced around to be sure the waiter wasn’t approaching. “Well, that would explain the gun.” 

Mycroft gave him a sharp look. 

“Oh, come off it. I’m not stupid; I figured out what really happened with the cabbie pretty quick. Why do you think I put so little effort into tracking down the shooter? Do you think I usually go about with an attitude of ‘Meh, the person killed was a bad guy, so oh well’?”

“Of course not...I suppose I was rather occupied at the time with how to proceed if Dr Watson were arrested.” 

“Yeah...as he was saving someone from a known serial killer, I doubt he’d have actually done prison time, but still...if no one else pushed it, I certainly wasn’t going to. Although…” Greg paused, and Mycroft looked at him expectantly. “I had, after all, just met John, and while Sherlock seemed to trust him, I _did_ , at least for a while, keep just enough evidence so that _if_ John turned out to be a problem for Sherlock, I could make his life difficult.” 

Greg would treasure the look Mycroft gave him just then for some time. “That was quite forward thinking of you. I appreciate your attention to my brother’s wellbeing.” 

“Yeah…” Greg rubbed his neck, a bit embarrassed at the praise. “It’s just...I know Sherlock isn’t...wasn’t… the type to suffer fools, _at all_.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Quite.” 

“But at the same time, as you said, he didn’t get close to people easily. He was always on about not needing friends and all. But sometimes when someone who doesn’t have friends suddenly finds himself with one--and here they were, moving right in together, dragging John along to crime scenes--well, they want to keep it. And as he said, relationships weren’t really his area, and I didn’t want to see him abused if he’d latched on to an inappropriate person.” 

“Thank you,” Mycroft said simply. He reminded himself yet again to not underestimate the D.I.’s understanding. 

“Fortunately, John turned out to be alright, so I never needed to use the information.” Greg gave a small smile. “So...Sherlock thinks that John was suicidal. I didn’t notice at the time, but it makes sense, knowing he’d lost his career and was recovering from a serious injury.” 

“Yes. I think that meeting my brother helped; Sherlock gave him a new battle to fight.” 

“Living with Sherlock is probably on the same level as live fire.” 

“Quite.”

“But now...you’re bringing this up because you think he might be suicidal again now that Sherlock’s gone.”

“My surveillance has not turned up any concrete evidence, but as you reported, his mental state is quite affected. I feel that my brother would not want that end for his closest friend, and I owe it to him to at least give due diligence to his welfare. I would be remiss in not putting you on your guard in this matter. If you do speak with John and find there is cause for immediate concern, please do not hesitate to let me know.”

“Of course. And if in your surveillance, you see that he needs someone to check in on him, let me know. I should see if he’ll let me keep his gun for a while, although I’m not sure how to bring it up without implying anything.” 

“No need to worry about that...I had one of my agents remove the gun from the premises during the funeral. Dr Watson noticed right away, but has of yet made no mention of it or sought another.”

Twenty minutes later, Greg left the restaurant with a lot on his mind. He’d have to make more of an effort to get John out of the flat more often, although he wasn’t sure if his presence helped or if he just reminded John of all the times they’d met at crime scenes with Sherlock. 

But something else, too. Mycroft was pragmatic to a fault. It was unlike him to be so sentimental about ‘what my brother would have wanted.’ Sherlock was dead; what happened to John wasn’t going to hurt him now. Not that Mycroft would just ignore the signs that someone was suicidal, even if he had no personal stake--he wasn’t quite so cold as his public persona suggested. But Mycroft was genuinely worried; it was the same way he’d worried about the things that had caused Sherlock’s danger nights before. Meh, a bit odd, but then, he was grieving, so of course he’d likely be more emotionally driven than usual. 

And if Sherlock “would not have wanted that end for his friend”, why had he chosen that end for himself? 

*****

“I was in the area and dropped by to see Mrs Hudson yesterday.” 

“Oh? I presume that she is in good health?” 

“Oh, yes, she seemed fine. Just back from a visit to her sister’s. But Mycroft…”

“Yes?” 

“She said that you’ve been paying the rent for 221b since John moved out and that everything’s been left just as it was. She offered to help box some things up, and you refused?” 

Mycroft looked uncomfortable. “Well, yes. I just haven’t had the heart to sort through it all, and after all, Dr Watson might want some things, eventually…” 

“Yeah, okay. I’m just surprised you didn’t just hire a crew to pack everything up if you don’t want to go through it now.” 

“Hmm...Oh, the waiter is coming. I was thinking of white wine tonight?”

 _Avoidance of the topic, and while, sure, I could understand wanting the violin and a few things that meant something to Sherlock, Mycroft is too pragmatic to want the rest of all that clutter. It’s not like Sherlock’s coming back for it._

*****

“Well, it’s finished. The final review of the last of the cases Sherlock was involved in was today, and he’s officially been cleared of all suspicion, lot of good that does him now.” 

Mycroft nodded gravely. “Nevertheless, I’m grateful that his name has been cleared. I do thank you, Gregory, for the long hours you’ve put into preparing for the reviews.”

“Of course. It was the least I could do--the accusations against him were ridiculous, and he deserved better than being thrown under the bus by the media the way he was.”

Mycroft took a bite of his salad before replying. “Yes...that was particularly difficult to watch. I admit...I _may_ have dropped a few hints to a few acquaintances to see that the verdict is given prominence in the headlines.” 

“Of course you did.” Greg gave a tired smile. “And although I would have done it anyhow, I can’t claim that working hard to clear his name was completely altruistic, either. It was my career on the line, too. Actually, I’m surprised how little fall out I’ve had...I expected to be sent home on administrative leave throughout the whole process. And knowing the commissioner, I’m surprised that I haven’t been written up or demoted just for having consulted with a civilian in the first place, even though he has proved to be right.” 

“Yes...the commissioner does not strike me as the type to think outside of the box. I suppose he must feel that having to work through so many past cases was punishment enough.” 

Greg snorted. “Yeah... _unusually_ understanding of him. And I notice that John punching him seems to have been forgotten in the shuffle. _Extremely unusual_ of him to forget such personal embarrassment.” 

“A change of heart, perhaps? Surely it would seem petty of him to pursue charges after Dr Watson had been taken hostage in front of him and then suffered the loss of his friend?” 

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t usually have a problem with being petty. I know you’ve likely dropped some “hints” to more than just the newspapers.”

Mycroft hummed noncommittally and took another bit of his salad. Greg rolled his eyes and let a comfortable silence falls for a moment as he finished his potatoes. _Yeah, he’s been pulling strings. The commissioner should be holding this over my head for years, or firing me. But...if he can pull these kinds of strings, why didn’t he squash the reporters that printed all that rot about his brother in the first place?_

“How is the morale of your team in the wake of completing the reviews?” 

Greg swallowed his last potato and coughed. “Ehm. Better than I expected, honestly. A couple of officers requested to be transferred to another division early on, but if that’s their attitude the team is better without them anyhow. We’ll be replacing them soon as I’ve been cleared to take new cases. Honestly, I’m most surprised by Donovan.” 

“Oh? I would have thought she’d be the first to transfer.” 

“Me, too. I seriously considered recommending her transfer myself in the early days; I was so angry about her stubborn refusal to back down from her suspicions that I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to work with her again. Honestly, I wanted to fire her, but didn’t have the power just at the time while still under review. I thought it would be a nightmare reviewing the cases with her; at first, she seemed determined to shadow me constantly. I guess she thought I might be tempted to cover something up.”

The waitress stopped to clear Greg’s empty plate. 

“Would you gentlemen like to see the dessert menu?” 

Mycroft waved her off, and Greg continued. 

“But, once we got into the work of it, I think the two of us coming at it from opposite ends helped to keep things as objective as possible. It took a while for her to really see that she had let her personal feelings against him make her suspicious and that the evidence proved him right. It took a while for me to see that things right before his death _were_ , in fact, suspicious, if I hadn’t trusted him completely. She...she came to me a couple of weeks back and apologized for her role in it all.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, I know. I never thought I’d be able to forgive her. And we’re still not back to the trust we had before; that’s going to take a while. But she seemed to be truly remorseful, and has put in a lot of extra hours to get through these reviews as soon as possible. Of course, time will tell, but at this point, she seems to have matured a lot. She even went with me to his grave last week and, well, apologized to him as best she could.” 

***** 

“Have any plans for the holidays?” 

“Christmas has become nothing more than rampant commercialism and greed, lowered productivity for most of a month, and forced familial obligations.”

“Yes, but do you have any plans, Ebenezer?”

“I’ll be spending Christmas Day visiting my parents; the rest of the season I shall pass by drinking Scotch in an effort to alleviate the headache from hearing “Little Drummer Boy” forty times in a month, _Mr. Cratchit._ ” 

“Hey, if I’m Bob Cratchit, feel free to supply me with a Christmas goose.” 

“Produce a convincing Tiny Tim to crack my heart of stone and I might.” 

“Yeah, yeah, keep it up and I’ll tell you where to put your coals for the fire. So, Christmas with your parents.” 

“That is what I previously stated, yes. And your plans?” 

“I’m planning to...Mycroft, why did your parents not attend the funeral?” Greg blurted out the thought as soon as he had it. “Oh, I...that was probably rude of me to bring up; it just occurred to me. Since I haven’t met them and you don’t speak of them often, I didn’t think, but then…” 

Mycroft sighed. “They are quite elderly, and were unable to make the trip into the city.” 

“Oh...okay. It must have been dreadful for them.” 

“Yes, of course, and the strain of the trip for the funeral would have been too much for them.” 

“Of course, of course.” 

“And your holiday plans, Gregory?”

“Oh! Yes, um. I’ll be spending part of Christmas Day working, and then the rest of the day and Boxing Day at my sister’s.”

On the way home, Greg replayed this conversation in his head. Mycroft’s parents were too elderly and infirm to attend their own son’s funeral, even though if they had wanted to Mycroft had the means to send a vehicle and attendants to transport them with every possible comfort? Had they disowned Sherlock or some such? Surely not, or Mycroft would have said so. But...just last year, Mycroft had been making that put-upon grimace over coffee, complaining about an outing to dinner and the theatre with his parents while they were in town. Surely _both_ had not suffered such a dramatic decline in health in just a year? Something just wasn’t adding up. 

*****

It was one a.m. on a rainy Wednesday night. He should be asleep, but he just couldn’t settle his mind. He’d tried reading a bit, but the history of Alexander the Great turning the island of Tyre into an isthmus had failed to hold his attention. Late-night telly made his eyes burn but just made him more restless mentally. And so here he was, standing by the kitchen sink with a half-drunk glass of water in his hand, staring out the window at the quiet street below. 

Goodness knows it wasn’t the first time he’d been unable to sleep; usually it was an unsolved case that his brain kept trying to solve, but since Sherlock’s death, it was often a slew of memories and regrets that insisted on replaying over and over. Normal, he supposed, when grieving; it had been similar after his cousin died in a car accident at nineteen. 

And so tonight... _Why did he jump? I know he was a dramatic bastard...but not cruel. Why would he do that to John, in front of him? If he just wanted to die, he would have just overdosed, unless he was trying to prove some point. What point would be made by dying like that?_

_And why did he give up so quickly? The allegations had only just hit the papers; he didn’t even give us time to try. I mean, yeah, I’d have been in a pretty bad place if I suddenly lost my job and my reputation. But he didn’t even TRY. He spent years overcoming being discounted because of the drugs in his past, and a bloke like that would’ve been bullied in school for sure. Why this time? Sure, suicidal tendencies don’t necessarily make sense, but still...were there NO signs? What did I miss? What did John miss?_

A car drove by slowly and somewhere in the distance a church bell tolled the hour. 

_And Mycroft. Grieving’s different for everyone, but even so. Why...why did his parents not come to the funeral? Mycroft’s reason was an excuse...wasn’t it just last spring that he said something about them planning a trip to Belgium in the fall? Why is he keeping the flat untouched? I can understand him pulling strings to keep me from losing my job, and keeping an eye on John’s mental state--he’s spent years cleaning up his brother’s messes. But he seems more concerned that John not hurt himself than I thought he would be...of course, he wouldn’t want someone to die if he could take steps to prevent it, but his concern was personal. He seemed more afraid for John more than their relationship would warrant. Why did he try to distance himself from me? It was more than just truly wanting to be alone to process his loss. He seemed to be fighting himself--he didn’t WANT to push me away, but thought he should for some reason._

A stray dog sniffed along the bins; Greg was glad he’d shut his securely. Nothing worse than picking up wet scattered bits the next morning. He sat the glass of water down and ran a hand through his hair. 

Maybe he should try lying down; he certainly wasn’t going to fall asleep standing here, even if the droplets of rain running down the window were calming. _What if Sherlock is alive?_

Greg shocked himself with the thought. Where did that even come from? He thought back to all the questions he’d just been asking himself. It...it _fit_. Sherlock somehow faking his death answered every one. Mycroft’s grieving was strange because it wasn’t _real_. Their parents...keeping the flat...protecting John…

Greg was shaking. He slowly slid down onto the blue-checked lino and sat with his back to the cabinet. _Idiot, there’s a chair not three feet away. Your knees will pop when you get up._ He laughed aloud at himself, the slight note of hysteria clear. 

Now his brain was throwing out ideas and half-thoughts and memories and evidence so fast that it hardly even counted as thinking. _Sort of like hearing Sherlock rattle off a list of deductions so fast that no one could keep up with it all._

Was it even possible? Had Sherlock really jumped, but only been injured and not dead? Had he used a dummy? No, surely John would have... _oh, hell. Who knows how he did it; probably wouldn’t understand it if he explained it. Doesn’t matter how...WHY?_

 _I must be going insane...I’m sitting here on the kitchen floor thinking Sherlock’s alive. I only had two beers after work._ He thumped his head back against the cabinet. _I’m going to be sectioned. A lot of people are made delusional by grief._

He closed his eyes and just breathed for a minute, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall. He actually drifted just a bit into a light doze before a car alarm and cursing outside snapped him back to full awareness. _Ah. Morty-next-door’s home. Don’t know why he even has an alarm on that car; he sets it off himself so often that none of the neighbours would ever look twice if anyone tried to steal it._

Breathe in. Breathe out. _Think. IF Sherlock really had faked his death, he must have had help, and who better than his older-brother-the-string-puller? But...if it’s true...is everyone wondering, or is just me? Surely, if it was true, someone smarter than me would have figured it out by now._ Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

_I know Mycroft._ The answer was suddenly clear. _Almost all of my evidence...or, suspicions fueling my delusions, maybe…are from things Mycroft has said or not said, or things he’s done that wouldn’t be odd for a bereaved older brother, if I didn’t know they were out of character for HIM. NO ONE ELSE KNOWS MYCROFT! Well, Anthea, but she’s probably in on it, and their parents, probably kept them away because he doesn’t trust their acting, and I don’t think anyone at the funeral knows them, so I only thought it odd because I’ve heard him mention them._

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Greg pulled himself up to standing, and his knees did, in fact, pop as expected. He started pacing, or as close to pacing as anyone could in a middle-class kitchen. Five steps the to wall. Nine steps back to the refrigerator. 

Greg laughed in elation. _He’s ALIVE. Oh, god, Sherlock’s alive. He has to be. I think I might actually cry._

Suddenly his joy turned to anger. _Why didn’t he tell me? He let me believe it all this time...does he think I’m an idiot? Guess so, it’s worked this long. I’m just another chess piece. Typical Holmeses, come up with some grand plan, never mind the pain it causes everyone who cares about them. Probably don’t realize anyone cares, since they don’t care._

Greg’s cool head and empathy had made him successful as a detective; he stopped himself from his mental rant and sighed as his whirling emotions hurtled down another path. _That’s...that’s not true. I of all people know it’s not true that they don’t care. Mycroft must feel so alone carrying a secret like that. But why hasn’t he trusted me? There has to be a reason, a plan...if he’s keeping up the flat, then he must mean for Sherlock to come back at some point. Where is he now; what kind of danger is he in? Without me or John to watch out for him?_

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Greg kept pacing. The emotional roller coaster ought to have worn him out by now, but instead, he paced faster, feeling like he needed to shout, to cry, to punch something, to laugh...so much for sleeping tonight. Well, he wasn’t working on any cases that were particularly time-sensitive; he could call in sick in the morning if he had to. 

He nearly ran into the bedroom, where his phone was plugged in next to the bed. Picking it up, he just stared at it for a moment before carrying it back to the sitting room. He made a circle around the coffee table, tapping it restlessly against his calf with every step. 

_Damn it. I have to know._ The glare of the screen made him wince in the dark room as he unlocked it. 

Greg started tapping and pressed send before he could change his mind. He hoped the message alert didn’t wake Mycroft...no, wait, this was worth waking him up for. 

**Mycroft? Are you still awake?**

**_…_ **

**_…_ **

**_Yes. I just ended a consultation with a colleague in Sydney._ **

**Ah. Time zones are a bitch, yeah? Where are you?**

**_Are you okay, Gregory? Have you been drinking?_ **

Greg smirked to himself. _No, but this would probably be an opportune time to start._

**No, just can’t sleep. I need to talk to you.**

**_Yes? What can I help you with?_ **

**Not over the phone. I know it’s late, but I need to see you. Are you at your office? I’ll come wherever you are.**

**…**

**…**

Greg waited impatiently. He stalked back into the bedroom and tossed the phone on the bed. He threw on a pair of jeans and put on his shoes, just in case Mycroft actually agreed to see him. Just as he picked up his wallet, the phone finally vibrated. 

_**I am at the Diogenes. Shall I send a car for you?** _

**No, I’ll drive. Thanks, though.**

_**Of course. Should I pour some Scotch in preparation for your arrival?** _

Greg didn’t bother answering, but he grinned at how well Mycroft knew him. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d used whiskey to take the edge off of a restless night. 

It was well after two by the time he knocked on the door to Mycroft’s private room. In his tiredness, he very nearly knocked on Mycroft’s chest as the door swung open mid-knock. He let his hand slowly drop. 

“Gregory. Come in.” Mycroft stepped aside. 

Greg walked slowly into the room, not sure how to start now that he’d rushed over here. Mycroft had set a bottle and glasses in a prominent place on the sideboard but hadn’t poured them, waiting to judge Greg’s mood. Apparently whatever he saw merited a drink, as a glass appeared in Greg’s hand as he stood absently by the desk.

“Did something happen?”

Greg shivered and clenched the fingers on his free hand into a fist. 

“I assume that this room is soundproofed and that you’ve made sure anything said here will not be overheard?” 

“Of course. The door has a special seal, and the room is swept for bugs regularly.” 

Turning to face his friend--first reactions were always the most telling--he blurted it out. 

“Sherlock’s alive, isn’t he?” 

Mycroft sucked in a breath. “Gregory, you attended his funeral.” _That’s not a no._

“Yeah, I know. It was bloody awful.” He took a sip of the Scotch. “I know. You’ll probably have me sectioned if I’m wrong about this, but...I know I don’t see things like you and Sherlock do, but I _am_ a detective. And little things have been adding up in my mind for a while, and tonight they all came together.” 

Mycroft looked a bit shaken. “Why would you think he is alive? And have you spoken with anyone else about your theory?” 

_Aha. He’s worried about the secret getting out. Or I’m wrong, and he’s hoping to get me mental help before anyone else finds out I’m losing it._

Greg sat down suddenly in one of the armchairs by the unlit fireplace and took another gulp of the Scotch. Mycroft followed cautiously and perched himself in the chair opposite without allowing himself to sink back into it. 

“Gregory?”

“Yeah...no, I haven’t spoken to anyone else. I came straight to you.” 

Mycroft relaxed infinitesimally but his fingers were still overly tight around his glass. 

Greg explained everything he’d thought about that night, and all the details that had stood out to him. Mycroft let him ramble without interrupting. He finally quieted and sat fidgeting with the glass in his hand while Mycroft stared unseeingly into the unlit fireplace. 

“Gregory...I…” he trailed off again.

“I know, I know, you’ll probably have me sectioned. But Mycroft…” 

“If I had any hope that I could decline to answer and have you accept that response, I would, but I know your detective brain will not let the matter rest.” 

Greg just looked at him steadily without further comment, and reached to set his drink on the end table. 

“And please understand, this conversation must remain entirely confidential; it is imperative that…”

“Mycroft.” 

His friend stopped speaking and met his eyes for a moment. Apparently what he saw there was enough to trust him. 

“Yes. Yes, Sherlock is still alive.” 

Greg couldn’t speak for a moment. _It’s true...it’s true...I wanted it to be true, but now I don’t know how to feel; I should have so many questions but I don’t even know where to start._

“Why?” 

Mycroft sighed and did not ask Greg to clarify which of the many why questions he could be asking about the situation. 

“Moriarty’s game...he wanted Sherlock to be like him, a mad genius who lived to find challenges to mitigate the boredom, with no regard for the cost to the unenlightened minds he saw as little more than ants to be stepped on. He realized, however, that Sherlock was not like him--as much as my brother touted the ‘high-functioning sociopath’ label, it wasn’t true. He was _\--is--_ capable of forming emotional attachments.” 

Greg just nodded and waited. 

“As unconventional as my brother’s morality is, he _does_ have limits. Moriarty was disgusted by this perceived failure in the mind that he hoped to truly challenge him. When they met on the rooftop that day, he had one last test to ascertain whether Sherlock would choose the pure intellectual stimulus that Moriarty felt he could offer or if he would insist on caring about the lives of ordinary people, which Moriarty saw as his weakness.” 

Mycroft looked into the dark fireplace again for a moment before continuing. Greg hardly dared breathe. 

“Moriarty had snipers. One on Dr Watson. One on Mrs Hudson. And…” Mycroft cleared his throat. “One on _you_ , Gregory.” 

_On me? But he...but I...so it was blackmail? Do what I want or they die?_ Greg just kept staring at Mycroft until he started speaking again. 

“Once Moriarty saw that Sherlock would choose his _friends_ , his weakness, over the game, he gave orders that you would all be assassinated if Sherlock were not seen to have jumped. He made clear the order was not dependent on himself remaining alive, and then shot himself. Sherlock had disappointed him, so he must die or be responsible for the deaths of his closest connections.” 

“How?” _Apparently I can’t even form full sentences anymore._

“Sherlock had chosen the location for the meeting. He and I had formulated several plans to be enacted depending on the outcome of the confrontation. Fortunately, one of our scenarios was close enough to the actual events that he was able to appear to die while not actually sustaining major injury.” 

“Who...um, who…” 

“Other than myself and a very limited number of extremely discreet agents who were needed to stage the scene, only Ms Hooper.” 

“ _Molly?_ Molly...she…” 

“The death certificate had to be entirely genuine, and once Ms Hooper was made to understand the situation, she agreed to be a part of the deception despite it being quite against her character to maintain such a level of secrecy.” 

“And where is…?” _God, I’m just going through all of the interrogative pronouns. Have I missed any? When? Which? Can I even think of a ‘which’ question? Fuck, it’s late, and I’m going insane._

“We knew better than to assume Moriarty’s schemes and machinations would die with him. He was the spider in the centre of a vast web. Sherlock was quite certain that if he were to reappear that the snipers would complete their missions, among other plausible retaliatory plans. Therefore, he must remain dead so long as Moriarty’s organization still has the ability to carry out his last orders. He is undercover, destabilizing the organization. So, yes, he is alive at this time, but frequently in very dangerous situations. He has made progress in dismantling the threats, but I do not know how long it will take before he will be satisfied that he can return to London without endangering the lives of his associates.” 

“But John…” 

Mycroft sighed. “He must not know. Please, Gregory. I know the temptation to assuage his grief is strong; Ms Hooper has been forced to avoid him completely. While it is likely that backup snipers were named, the snipers that were assigned to Mrs Hudson and yourself have been removed, and the organization has been sufficiently splintered into factions that it is unlikely that the backups would choose to act. But Moriarty knew Dr Watson’s important to my brother. He assigned his most trusted and deadly sniper to him, a man who by reputation never loses his prey. Moran is still at large. We have not been able to pinpoint precisely who or how, but it is clear that Dr Watson is still being watched closely.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Quite. While I do pity the man’s emotional state, it is for his own safety that he must not know. If his grief were ever to appear less than genuine…” 

“Yeah, I get it. But Mycroft…” Greg stood and took a step and then stopped; he had nowhere to go but his nervous energy would not allow him to remain seated. 

Mycroft looked up at him expectantly. 

“I..wow, I don’t know what to say. My brain is still spinning. I mean, he’s alive, that’s...that’s great...but I just... _fuck._ ” 

Mycroft gave him small smile. _Probably just grateful I didn’t yell or punch him_. 

“Is there anything I can do?” 

“Not at this point, Gregory, although if your assistance is required I will alert you. Of course, you understand that…”

“Yes, yes. I’ll need to go on as if nothing has changed. But.. _fuck._ ” 

“So you said.” 

“Bloody Holmeses. I may end up having to yell at you or kick some tires yet.” 

“I quite understand. However, if you feel the need to yell, please do so here or in one of the other soundproofed locations I can provide.” 

“Yeah...sure. Of course. Wow. I just...I promise I’ll be able to form sentences again eventually.” 

“Please finish your Scotch, and then I will have my driver take you home. I will have agents return your car by morning.” 

“Yeah…” Greg sat back down and nearly choked on a large swallow of whisky. Mycroft brought the bottle over and they sat in silence until they’d both finished a second glass. 

“Thank you for telling me the truth, Mycroft.” 

“I only wish that I had not been obliged to hide it from you for this long. If I…”

“No, no, I get it. Don’t apologize for doing what you had to do.” 

“I admit, I am slightly relieved to have someone who knows. Of course, in public we must maintain the fiction.”

“Of course. One more finger of Scotch?” 

Mycroft nodded and poured. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to go on to further meetings in which they bitch about Mary and such, but this is long enough as it is. Five more chapters and an epilogue to go!


	19. Gut Decisions

Somehow two more hours passed; the only additional information was a possible sighting of the van in Hockley Heath; Beckett had been hacking into the feeds of security cameras from businesses in small towns along possible routes and had caught a glimpse of a van matching the description passing a swimming pool shop. The camera was aimed to capture the storefront and the parking spaces out front and not passing traffic, so the van was only visible briefly before disappearing behind an establishment apparently called The Big Fish. Mycroft had mentally cursed most of the larger species of fish for their collusion in denying him a clear shot of the number plate. 

He knew from a glance at his pocket watch that it had been dark for some time now, not that it made any difference to him down here in the fluorescent glare of the basement situation room. But for Gregory...it seemed worse, somehow, that he was out in the night. Mycroft’s rational brain quickly reminded him that the position of the sun and the turning on of the street lamps made little difference in the level of danger Detective Inspector Lestrade was in, but his often-ignored emotional side (ignored? More like flat-out denied, most of the time) kept butting in. _But it’s dark. He’s out there somewhere when he should be stretched out on his sofa with a beer and a book. I should have been able to bring him home in time for dinner. I’m not doing enough; I’m missing something; I’m failing him._

“Sir?” He looked away from the map he hadn’t been seeing to find Anthea at his elbow holding out a cup of tea. 

“I appreciate the thought, but I…” He didn’t _deserve_ a tea break, not until he’d _found something_ , not until…

“Sir.” He looked up again, and she narrowed her eyes at him. Swapping the cup to her other hand, she laid what would look, to a casual observer, like a comforting hand on his elbow. “I brought you some tea.” 

He allowed himself to be led to a chair in the quietest corner of the room. It was easier to acquiesce than finding out if Anthea meant her I-will-make-a-scene-if-I-have-to grip on his arm. 

“Sit.” He sat. 

Anthea retrieved her own cup of tea from near her laptop where she had left it and came to sit in the chair at a right angle to him. 

“Drink.” Oh, yes, the object in his hand had uses other than as a hand-warmer. _Is Gregory cold? He was not wearing his coat when he was taken. The night is not especially cold, but it _is_ November and will drop to eight degrees overnight, and likely a few degrees cooler in the Birmingham area…_

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, Anthea glaring at him when he thought to set the cup down after a couple of sips. It wasn’t until precisely half the cup was gone that she spoke. 

“Better?” 

“Yes, thank you.” The warmth and the small dose of caffeine did seem to be clearing his mind a bit. _I’m losing my focus; I’m allowing my emotional involvement in the situation to occupy too large a portion of my attention. Becoming preoccupied with his immediate comfort is not conducive to bringing his plight to an end._ He took another large drink of tea. 

“Let’s go over what we have.” 

“Just let me…” Anthea sat her cup on the end table in the corner and retrieved her laptop without any comment about having added very little since the last time they reviewed all the available data an hour ago. 

*****

It was sometime past midnight, probably closer to one; Mycroft could estimate fairly closely even without glancing at the clock, but he was sparing no mental energy for trivialities. He and Anthea were watching over Agent Garrett’s shoulder as she liaised with New Scotland Yard. They had taken the van sightings by Mycroft’s people and worked with local authorities to set up roadblocks along a few of the possible routes. 

“Both the roadblock between Swadlincote and Burton upon Trent and the one just south of Rugby have been unsuccessful so far; the van has not passed either checkpoint. We’re planning to continue the roadblock for half an hour more, but it’s unlikely the van is still in either area after this amount of time. The roadblock near Twycross has already been disbanded…” 

Either the van had holed up somewhere out of sight or Alvarez was somehow the luckiest bastard to ever run from the cops; _how_ they had not been sighted by any of the police officers combing the area, Mycroft didn’t know. 

A second officer joined Sgt Callahan as she reported that forensics still had not located anything useful in the discarded vans (he knew there wouldn’t be). 

“Sgt Donovan. I was not expected to see you again this evening.” If Donovan was surprised that Mycroft’s assistant recognized her, she didn’t show it. 

“Yeah, well, I was finally released from A&E they insisted I stay for _hours_ to monitor the concussion.” 

Anthea gave her a look, which Sally interpreted easily. 

“I know, I should be home, I didn’t need to come in, all that. I couldn’t sleep even if I did go home, not knowing what’s happened to Lestrade. Besides, they wanted me to be woken up periodically because of the concussion, and I live alone. So, I might as well be here if I’m not going to sleep anyhow.” 

Mycroft nodded. He had never dealt with Donovan one on one; his opinion of her had never been high, filtered as it was through Sherlock’s experiences with her, but maybe Greg was right about her maturation over the past years. 

***** 

2:57 a.m. 

“Possible sighting.” 

Mycroft knew he shouldn’t let his heart beat faster every time an analyst spoke, but it didn’t seem to be following his directives as well as usual. He glanced up from his perusal of Alvarez’s financial history, carefully keeping his hope from showing in his expression. 

“White van...right model...finding an angle with a view of number plate...ah. No, not a match.” 

3:11 a.m. 

_If...WHEN--this is not the time to wallow in pessimism--I get Gregory back...or should I say, when he returns...is he mine for me to say that it is me he is being returned to? While I hope...my interpretations of the events of last Saturday...but emotions and attractions are tricky things, after all, and a traumatic experience such as this may cause a change in priorities. Why--no, stop. My own interests in his presence in London are irrelevant to the task at hand._

_Alvarez’s access to the account in the Caymans was revoked in 2013, but he still is listed as an authorized party on the Swiss account, along with…_

_~~If~~ when I get Gregory back, I will make my regard for him explicit. He deserves only the finest--surely there are many others better equipped by nature to care for a man like Gregory in the fashion that he deserves, but if he allows me to make an attempt…I’ll take him to dinner at The Goring, back to that coffee shop he still talks about, as often as he wants, maybe a long weekend away...Hmm, Paris would be nice; I’d like to stroll by the Seine with him, stop for pain au chocolat... _

_Stop. Focus. The Swiss account has not been accessed using his code for three weeks; working on the theory that he..._

3:46 a.m. 

No new sightings. More reports on the cartel and its holdings; all that was really clear was that Alvarez was mediocre in every respect. His fortunes rose and fell depending upon his current status in his uncle’s good graces. The work in London to secure a new drug operation was his bid to impress after the embarrassment of the DEA raid in Tijuana last year. None of which explained why he had taken a hostage rather than just locking Lestrade in the freezer with the others; it hadn’t been his best move. 

Mycroft was similar to his brother in that he could operate with a clear mind even on very little sleep, though he didn’t deprive himself for the fun of it the way Sherlock seemed to. Not all of his agents were the same; he’d brought in a few more analysts during the night to watch the feeds while the first crew caught naps where they could. 

_What am I missing? WHAT AM I MISSING?_ Mycroft stood again and began pacing around the room. Maybe he would think better if he worked off some restless energy. _Alvarez’s only hope is to leave the country before he is captured. He must know that all commercial flights are being monitored. A boat might be easier to board without detection, but thus far he has stayed as far away from a port as is possible in an island nation. Unless he’s purposefully being sighted so far inland on purpose, to draw us away from the coast? Is he enough of a strategist to plan that way? He might have been better served to find somewhere to lay low for several weeks before risking a flight or boat after we have become less vigilant, but that possibility was removed when he took Gregory--he must know we will never become complacent now that he has a hostage._

3:49 a.m. 

“THAT’S IT! SIR!” 

Anyone with any less control than Mycroft Holmes would have nearly fallen out of their chair at the sudden exclamation in the serious hush that the room had fallen into as new information grew scarce and the hours grew long. As it was, nearly everyone jumped, and Agent Garrett very nearly ended up with coffee in her keyboard. Mycroft looked up slowly, tightening his grip on the folder he was holding to ground himself. 

“I’ve got the van! Car park of the Rainbow Casino, Ladywood neighbourhood of Birmingham. The number plate was only picked up by the camera now that the traffic in the car park has thinned,” Beckett explained. 

Mycroft gave him a nod of acknowledgement and pulled out his phone. 

“Mycroft.” 

“We have the van. Rainbow Casino in Birmingham.” He glanced over Beckett’s shoulder at the map he’d brought up. “Portland Road, just off Hagley Road.” 

Sherlock grunted in response as he pulled up the map on his phone. “We can be there in twenty minutes.” 

“Report as soon as you arrive.” Hardly necessary, that command, but Sherlock for once let the “obviously” remain unspoken. Suddenly, Mycroft could not stay in this safe room in London for one more minute. “I will leave for Birmingham immediately.” 

Anthea looked up at this announcement. He caught her eye and nodded, and she picked up her own phone and began barking out orders. 

“Make sure any officers who might reach the van before I do know not to touch anything until I get there.” Sherlock did not question his decision to come himself before hanging up. 

The earlier lethargy of the room had been completely wiped away by the excitement around the discovery of the van. The room was again buzzing with energy as the agents combed the footage from any camera they could locate in the vicinity of the casino. 

“Sir, the helicopter is standing by,” Anthea affirmed as she slid her laptop into her bag. “Sgt Donovan would like to come along.” 

Mycroft nodded. “If you can get her to the helipad without delaying our flight.” 

***** 

The helicopter was in the air fifteen minutes later. Sgt Donovan made the flight, thanks to the officer who volunteered to drive her with lights and siren and the light traffic at four in the morning. She just had time to clip herself in across from Anthea before Mycroft gave the pilot the signal to go. 

His phone buzzed just as they hit cruising altitude. 

“Sherlock.” 

“We’ve reached the van. No one inside.” 

Mycroft let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He had expected the van to be abandoned, but there was always the possibility, that he’d been trying hard to ignore, that a body had been left behind in it. As long as there was no body, there was hope. 

“Switching you to radio. Anthea and Sgt Donovan listening.” 

Sherlock hummed his agreement as he began his investigation. Mycroft gestured to Anthea to flip the switch on her headset as he connected the phone, which she quickly did and then reached across to show Sally how to adjust her own. 

“Sherlock?” 

“This is John. He can hear you; it’s on speaker; I’m just holding it.” 

“Thank you, Dr Watson.” There were sounds of the van doors being opened and the babel of local officers called in to secure the scene. 

“The van has been here for at least five hours, possibly six.” Sherlock’s voice rose and fell as he moved closer to the phone and then away again. “No blood, no bodily fluids...evidence of eight occupants: a driver, front passenger, six on the floor in the rear. Ah, Lestrade sat there, behind the driver’s seat. He managed to pick at the pilled upholstery in the shape of an L.” 

_My Gregory. Your bravery astounds me._

“The police are searching the casino. They won’t find them inside, though.” 

Mycroft didn’t question the pronouncement; he already had the casino pulled up on his phone, and it was a fairly small operation mostly frequented by regulars. An agent had been assigned to do a background check on the casino owner and staff, just to be sure, but hadn’t yet found any cartel connections. Almost certainly the casino was just a convenient place to leave a vehicle late at night without drawing immediate attention.

“Petrol tank at ¼; mileage per gallon on this type of vehicle…” The occupants of the helicopter were silent as they focused on following the deductions over the noise of the propellers. “...no personal items other than empty crisp packets left behind…” 

Anthea dutifully made notes of any data that might turn out to be relevant. 

“The time period in which the van was left was during the busiest part of the evening for the casino. There would have been witnesses in the car park if they switched to another vehicle here.” 

“So, it’s just a vehicle dump?” Donovan asked. 

“Precisely. Hmm...John, look at this, on the tires.” 

“Yeah, mud. Please don’t taste it.” 

“Hmm…” There were various scuffling noises and the chatter of nearby officers. 

While Mycroft was waiting for further information from his brother, he patched in Agent Banes, who was now particularly dedicated to the mission after his dressing down from Anthea and a short nap. 

“Banes. Standby, and be prepared to research any leads my brother provides. You are on the shared radio frequency.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Oi! Wipe your muddy fingers on your own bloody trousers!” Ow. Anthea and Sally shared a pained look as John yelped a bit too close to the phone. 

“The mud on the tires includes leaves from a Plymouth Pear tree--quite rare in Birmingham, not native--and a fluid used in large-scale printing operations. Two layers of mud; the first heavier than the second. The van drove through a patch of mud, pear leaves and fixer solution twice; the first time with a heavy load--eight passengers--and the second time with a light load--only the driver.” 

“On it, sir,” Banes could be heard typing frantically. “Plymouth pears only found in three parks in Birmingham; Sutton Coldfield and Sheldon Country Park are several miles away, but...there. There’s a stand of pear trees in the northeast corner of Ladywood Park, six-tenths of a mile northeast of your location.” 

“Ran a search of printing companies,” Beckett butted in. “There’s one just across the road from the park entrance.” 

“Excellent. Check cameras between here and there; run facial recognition for members of Alvarez’s crew. The driver left here on foot.” 

And the game was on. Mycroft said little, but mentally catalogued and examined the various bits of information that flowed back and forth between Sherlock and his agents. Within twenty minutes, Sherlock’s deductions let the agents to footage of a known cartel member and associate of Alvarez, Raul Cesaro, buying beer at an off-license in the neighborhood of the park, proving he’d walked back that way, and that it was more likely that the group was holed up nearby rather than having taken another vehicle to leave the area, since Raul had purchased as much beer as he could carry, and surely wouldn’t have bought that much to carry too far. 

It was now 4:40, and they were still twenty to twenty-five minutes out from their planned landing pad in Birmingham. 

For once, Sherlock was working with his brother instead of being the one Mycroft was searching for. He’d certainly spent some all-nighters like this for his brother over the years, although in Sherlock’s case it was more often for dangerous situations of his own making. He supposed it was just the lot of the elder sibling; he’d seen people do crazy things and take awful risks for a family member in trouble, even if they ordinarily didn’t get on too well with said sibling. Despite all the hell Sherlock got up to, he still could never quite resist stepping in when things got desperate. 

_Alvarez is a younger brother._

Granted, from all reports, Armando Alvarez and his older brother Antonio avoided each other as much as possible, the younger jealous of the elder’s higher position and greater success, and the elder frustrated by the younger’s recklessness and incompetence. But then again...people often thought he and Sherlock hated each other; even Moriarty and Magnussen had assumed they would throw one another under the bus if it benefited them. 

_What if…_

“...yeah, I’m still looking for more cameras; it’s primarily a residential area, so there’s not much to work with. There is a corner shop with a security camera, but they only keep it running when the shop’s open, and it was closed by the time he came through. Hmm. Maybe if I…” 

“Beckett.” 

“...the only oth--oh, yes, Sir?” 

“What is the current location of Antonio Alvarez, the elder brother?” 

“On it, sir, just give me a mo’...Tom, take this feed…” 

Mycroft stared out into the dark sky as he waited. It didn’t feel like rain, but a thin layer of clouds had obscured most of the stars; the moon that had been shining brightly earlier was nowhere to be seen. Had Gregory seen the moon tonight? He himself had had only a few minutes’ exposure to it as he boarded the helicopter; he’d been indoors with no windows most of the night, and the clouds had successfully concealed it by the time they flew over St. Albans. It would be some comfort to know they were both looking up at the same calm presence, even though separated…

_Oh god, what has happened to me? That...that had to be the most ridiculously sentimental thing I’ve ever let form in my brain. Looking up at the same moon?? What has he done to me?_

Sally Donovan gave him a bit of an odd look. What ridiculous expression had just crossed his face while he was distracted? 

_I should abhor sparing a moment to think of him looking at the moon, now, when my entire mental focus would be better employed in ensuring his rescue...and yet. I’d write sonnets about the moon if I thought it would bring him comfort._

Mycroft sighed. Well, as Sherlock had said, fire exposes a person’s priorities. This crisis was burning off all his delusions of being cautious and rational in his approach to deepening his relationship with Gregory. _If I get him back...WHEN I get him back...I won’t be able to pretend any-.”_

“Sir. Antonio Alvarez is on holiday at the Brigands Inn in Mallwyd, just outside of Snowdonia National Park. He and his wife and a few friends flew in on his uncle’s private jet a week ago.” 

“Where is the jet now?” 

“Registered as being housed in the new hanger at Welshpool airport.” 

“Thank you.” 

Mycroft Holmes disliked spontaneity. He made carefully thought out decisions and certainly did not risk it all on a hunch. But… 

“Carter. Change course; Welshpool airport.” 

“Yes, sir.” The helicopter began a slow veer towards a more westerly heading. 

Anthea looked up sharply and caught his eye. 

His resolve must have been clear because she only gave a nod and began calling in agents. 

*****

While Mycroft followed his gut to the airport, Sherlock continued his investigation in Birmingham. The sun had barely risen when he triumphantly led the posse of officers trailing after him and John to a small flat in Ladywood. 

Banging on the door led to a confrontation with a sleepy but defensive Veronica. 

She’d first denied having even seen the cartel members, but after Sherlock loudly deduced all of the evidence of several people having recently passed several hours in the small flat (not difficult; _Anderson_ could have come to that conclusion from the beer cans, dishes, and moved furniture), she admitted they’d been there but that she had no idea where they were going. She burst into tears blubbering about how they’d threatened her brothers (true) and to rape and murder her (not true) if she alerted the police. 

In the crush of officers and wildly gesticulating consulting detectives, John found himself standing next to the obviously terrified elderly woman at the table. She’d been silent other than to confirm she spoke no English and sat nervously fiddling with the various items on the messy table. He’d nearly forgotten her presence when he felt a gentle brush against his hand. He glanced down as a small square of folded paper was pressed into his curled fingers. 

“Shhh, shhh…,” the woman hummed under her breath, keeping her eyes on the fit her granddaughter was throwing in the sitting room. John tightened his fist on the paper. After a moment he looked down again and she threw him a quick, frightened glance. He nodded almost imperceptibly and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

Nonchalantly as he could manage, he wandered out of the flat, pretending to examine around the pavement outside the door. A couple of officers were standing about by the road but paid him no mind. He quickly unfolded the paper. It was a crude drawing of an airplane and the word _hermano._ John pulled out his phone. _Hermano,_ brother. Mycroft was right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, I did the final edit while so sleepy that I dozed off over it several times. Feel free to point out any glaring errors; I'll go over it again when I can actually keep my eyes open. 
> 
> We're getting close: four more chapters and an epilogue to go! 
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you who have been reading and coming back for each new chapter. I'm excited that the fic passed 3000 hits today!


	20. May 2015

_**May 2015** _

This case was giving Greg a headache. Sherlock had declared it a four when he’d described it to him over the phone and declined to peel himself off of the sofa, so in theory it shouldn’t be all that difficult...but the pieces just weren’t coming together. His team had been running down leads all week, but the information gathered just added to the confusion, and the list of leads to follow up on would be exhausted by the end of the day. Popping a couple paracetamols, he stood and stretched. Reading through the file again hadn’t given him any new ideas; maybe he’d be fresher after lunch. 

Maybe he’d stop by Baker Street while he was out. While Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to come down to the office to look at it, he usually couldn’t resist if a case appeared in front of his face, especially if accompanied by a suggestion that the Yarders were too stupid to figure it out. Greg had his pride, but he’d learned over the years that it was worth being called an idiot now and then if it meant Sherlock would do part of his work for him (alas, never the part that involved filling out reports). 

*****

Greg finally found a spot to park around the corner on Melcombe Street; damn midday traffic. At least it wasn’t raining if he had to walk a bit, and honestly, he could use some time outdoors in the sun without a dead body in his immediate vicinity. 

Mrs. Hudson was just coming out of the door with her shopping bags, saving him the trouble of knocking. 

“Greg, dear! Are you coming in?” Cheerful as always. She’d finally dropped the ‘Detective Inspector’ and treated him as one of her boys since she’d drunk both him and Molly under the table at John and Mary’s wedding. 

“Yes, ma’am, just running up some files for Sherlock to take a look at.” 

“I’d offer you a cuppa, but I’m just off to the shops. I have to be back in time to make some tarts to take to my book club this evening.” 

“Oh, of course; I’m on my lunch break so I’m just stopping by for a moment anyhow. I hope your book club meeting goes well!” 

“Oh, don’t wish that, dear. It’s so much more fun when it doesn’t.” Greg wasn’t really sure what to reply to that. “Have a nice day, dear!” 

“You, too, Mrs Hudson.” She pursed her lips as if to say something, but then gave a tiny nod and just waved a hand as she turned and headed towards the nearest Tesco. Greg didn’t worry about it; Mrs Hudson wasn’t shy. If there was something she wanted to say, she would say it. Mentally reviewing how he was going to wheedle Sherlock into solving the case, he headed upstairs. 

The door was pushed to but not latched, which was a common state of things. You’d think with all the murderous psychopaths in Sherlock’s life that he’d pay more attention to things like locks, but then again, the level of crazy people he attracted weren’t going to be slowed down by a simple locked door, so maybe it was pointless anyhow. He rapped politely with the back of his hand, and hearing nothing (and he always enjoyed it if he did manage to startle Sherlock; payback for some of the many, many times his office door was flung open unceremoniously), let himself in.

“God damn it! Why!”

At least the two men on the sofa weren’t completely naked, although it looked like they were heading that way. Sherlock’s shirt was unbuttoned and hanging open, and he’d kicked off his shoes and socks. John’s jumper was in a heap on the end table; he still had on a vest but his jeans were unzipped and sagging enough to show a good inch of his pants all around. Red, really? Not something Greg needed to know. Sherlock was leaning over John so far as to be almost in his lap, and John had a good handful of his arse. 

At Lestrade’s startled exclamation, John removed his tongue from Sherlock’s mouth, but only reluctantly slid his hand slowly off of the arse he was clutching so that Sherlock could turn to face their visitor. 

“Lestrade, we are consenting adults, and you _did_ enter our home without invitation. Surely your reaction to the sight of two people showing affection is a little extreme?”

“I’m not angry you two are together; I’m quite chuffed, actually, although I really didn’t need the visual, ta. It’s just...couldn’t you have waited one more month, after all these years? 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock gave him a faintly baffled look. Heh, it was almost worth walking into this mess just to see that rare-but-satisfying look of confusion. John had surreptitiously zipped up his trousers and seemed to be wavering between annoyance and laughter. 

Greg sighed. “It’s just, after all these years of you two giving each other those moony looks--yes, you have--you _had_ to finally do something about it on _his_ month. Wait, how long have you been, well, this?”

“This? You mean, shagging?” John smirked. Greg shot him an exaggerated grimace. 

“ _His_ month? Lestrade, you are speaking more gibberish than usual.” 

Greg grinned sheepishly. “So...Mycroft and I had a little running bet about when you two would get together. I had even months, he had odds. Hey! How about we all three agree to pretend I was never here today, and then in a couple of weeks, I can drop by and “surprise” you then. Or maybe we can figure out a way to have Mycroft drop by, and I’ll give you a signal.”

Sherlock and John were both looking at him with amusement. “We’ll be locking our door from now on, ta,” John assured him.

“But John...we’re mates, right?” Greg pleaded. “Sherlock! I’ll get you five cold cases!” 

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Five...hmm, make it seven and I might be…oof.” He looked down at John and the elbow in his side. 

“Nope. Not happening.”

“But John! Cold cases! And Mycroft!” 

“Yeah, John! Cold cases!” Greg tried to lobby for his position. 

“Sherlock…” John turned slightly and gazed up into his new lover’s face. “We’ve waited so long to be together. I am not keeping _us_ a secret for even one day. I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself for having denied what I felt for you this long, but now that I have you, I don’t want to pretend ever again.” 

“John.” Sherlock’s mouth curved into a soft smile that trembled a bit. He placed a careful, chaste kiss on John’s lips and sat blinking at him. 

_Christ,_ Lestrade thought, _they really are almost as bad as those silly conversations Mycroft and I used to make up._ He rolled his eyes and took an interest in the ceiling. 

He coughed before they could forget his presence and resume their earlier activities. “Soooo….how long since…” he gestured between the two of them. 

“Honestly, Lestrade, use your words.” So, sentiment had yet to cure Sherlock of being a git. 

“Umm...a week.” John rubbed his neck. “We haven’t been keeping it a secret, but we just haven’t really seen anyone, and we’re still...deciding…,” he shot Sherlock a rueful look that spoke of an ongoing debate, “...how to announce it.” He looked up from his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “I’m for making a blog post and then leaving the country until everyone gets used to the idea. He’d like to...make more of a scene.” 

“A _scene_ , John, honestly. I just want to see the Yarders’ faces when we…” 

“So, I should be prepared for all productivity to come to a screeching halt at my next crime scene while my team recovers from the shock of you two snogging over the corpse?” 

“Yuuuuup.” Sherlock popped the p so hard he nearly spit. 

“We are _not_ snogging over a corpse! Seriously, if you even _try_ to, I’ll…”

“But John! Corpses have been such a part of our courtship! You don’t object to snogging in front of Billy!” He gestured towards the mantel. Greg’s eyes followed automatically. Oh. The skull. 

“Yeah, not working.” 

Sherlock made a pouty face. 

“Deeeefinitely not working.” 

“...And, I’m still here, gentlemen. Do whatever you want. God knows that after ten years of dealing with you Holmeses nothing you could do is likely to shock me.” Sherlock looked thoughtful. “And that is NOT a challenge,” Greg added defensively. 

“Hey, speaking of ‘how long’, just how long have you andMycroft been betting on us getting together?” John tried to turn the conversation before Sherlock had too much time to make plans. 

Greg’s sheepish look returned. “Hoooo, um. Let’s see. I believe it was February...fifth…” 

“February fifth? That was two days before…” Sherlock glanced at John, but his boyfriend just narrowed his eyes. Lying ex-assassin wives who defected from major criminal organizations and got themselves killed really _did_ make for awkward conversations. “Ahem. In the middle of the A.G.R.A. situation. When did you two have time to waste on speculating about our _relationship_?” 

Greg tapped his fingers on his thigh and studied a speck of dirt on the toe of his shoe. “Notthisyear.” Sherlock looked at him in confusion again. Well, at least that was going well for Greg on this visit; _two_ looks of confusion were quite a feat.

John narrowed his eyes again at the mumbling. “Greg.” 

He sucked in a breath. “Sooo….might’ve been a different February, don’t recall which…” 

“Greg.” 

“Alright, alright. We made the bet on the fifth of February, 2010.” 

“2010? But that was…” Sherlock glanced at John. John looked rather stunned. 

“Chriiiist. Everyone else really did see it all along then.” 

“Yeah...you two are idiots.” Greg was starting to actually enjoy this. Sherlock started to protest, probably with some observations using big words about Greg’s level of intelligence if he, Sherlock, was an idiot, but John cut him off. 

“Yeah, love, we kind of are.” 

Sherlock huffed but didn’t comment. 

“Well...this has been lovely and all. I’m just going to leave this case file here on the desk; whenever you get a chance to take a look, let me know if you see any further leads we should follow up on…” Sherlock’s nose went into the air. “...Yes, yes, I know, your brain has its own postal code and we are mere unenlightened slugs. Just look at it and text me.” 

Greg flopped the file on the desk juuust far enough that Sherlock would have to get up to reach it. He wasn’t above being petty now and then where The Great and Powerful Brain was concerned. 

“Hey...do you mind if I let Mycroft know he won the bet, or do you want me to wait until he catches you shagging on his desk…?” 

Sherlock perked up and looked thoughtful. John growled. “No, just...no. Thanks for _that_ , Greg.” 

“But John…”

“Don’t ‘but John’ me. I think Greg letting him know would be alright, don’t you think?” John turned from Greg to meet Sherlock’s eye. 

Sherlock huffed. “Fiiiine. Honestly, I’d really rather not see his face if he’s going to be smug about it. But leave everyone else to us.” 

“Of course, of course. I wouldn’t dare deprive you of the opportunity to make a spectacle of yourself.” 

“I do not make a…”

“Oh, yes you do. And you love it.” Greg should know, he’d been putting up with this shit for a _decade_ now. 

John giggled, and Sherlock glared at him for not taking his side. 

“Well, have a...nice...afternoon, then, gentlemen. I’ll just be off now.” 

“Yeah, you too. See you, Greg.” 

Sherlock just nodded imperiously. 

Greg saw him reaching for John’s flies again and walked faster, making a point to make as much noise as possible on the way down the stairs. Note to self: knock long and loud on all future visits. 

*****

Greg was walking around the block to where he left his car when he saw a small stationary shop and had a brilliant idea. 

“Oi, mate!” A guy walking a yappy little dog swerved around him and an old lady glared at him. He ignored them both and stepped inside. 

Back in his car, he balanced the creamy cardstock with a Greek key pattern around the edges on the stack of witness statements in the passenger seat and wrote:

Gregory Alan Lestrade 

Would like to extend an Invitation

To Mr Mycroft Holmes 

to have Dinner (prepared by Mr Lestrade) 

in Honor of our Agreement.

Saturday, 23 May 2015 

At Seven O’clock in the Evening 

At the Lestrade Residence

Casual dress acceptable

He sucked on the end of the pen a moment while he reread it. Should he be even more outrageously formal? ‘Dinner at my estate?’ ‘Please R.S.V.P’? ‘A culinary experience’? An “experience” would probably be a kind word; he hadn’t had the time to cook properly in ages. The few people who’d eaten his cooking hadn’t complained, but Mycroft was used to the most pretentious restaurants. Too bad he didn’t know Mycroft’s middle name, or, list of middle names more likely, as posh as he was. Nah, good enough. He carefully folded his ridiculous invitation in half and slipped it into the matching envelope. 

He should probably get back to the office, but then again, he’d missed so many lunches over the years that he couldn’t quite feel guilty about taking an especially long one today. With the envelope carefully tucked under the pile of statements, he drove to a nondescript office building in Whitehall. He patiently showed his ID and submitted to the security check at the door; he didn’t come here often, but enough that he knew the protocol. Humming to himself (much to the annoyance of the stuffy elderly lady in tweed who stepped in behind him), he took the lift down to the basement level. 

A security camera followed him down the hall to a large office with a blandly decorated seating area by the door and a large desk with three monitors on it. (He always thought he’d feel like he was at the control of a spaceship if he was surrounded by that many screens. And knowing this office, there probably really was one of those missile launch buttons around here somewhere.) The-woman-who-calls-herself-Anthea looked up, as unsurprised as ever, thanks to the video feed from the hall cameras he could see in the corner of the furthest screen. 

“Ah, Anthea. How are you today?”

“Detective Inspector. I wasn’t made aware you were expected today, but Mr Holmes is in his office if you’d like me to see if he is available. And I’m just fine today, thank you.” 

“Actually...I would like you to give him this.”

She eyed the envelope suspiciously and took it by the corner between two fingers. “and might I ask…”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s from me and hasn’t been out of my possession since I wrote it,” Greg was quick to reassure her. Of course with Mycroft’s position she would be wary of deliveries from unknown sources. 

“And you don’t wish to deliver it yourself?”

“I...I do hate to waste your time; I know you must be quite busy. But I would like for him to read it and deduce its meaning; if I was in the room he’d deduce me instead and I couldn’t keep a straight face.” 

Anthea pursed her lips but scooted her chair back. 

“I’ll wait out here; I’ll see him after he reads it, if he has a moment.” 

She quirked her head to the side. She was always careful with her words, and while Greg doubted anyone could deduce at the level of the Holmes brothers, no doubt she could see a good bit more than most. Her observations must have been satisfactory, as her eyes took on a gleeful glint. 

“I think he will find it to be good news, delivered as a bit of a riddle. Shouldn’t take him long.” 

“Anything in particular you had planned for me to say?” she asked with a smile.

“Just tell him it’s urgent so that he’ll read it right away, but don’t tell him who it’s from or that I’m here until after he reads it, if you can help it.” 

“Got it. He --and I-- have sat through several insufferably boring meetings this week; I hope this will at least liven up the day.”

“Ooooh, it will. I’ll tell you about it after, if you’d like.” 

She smiled wider and stood up. “Wait over there if you don’t want to risk him seeing you when I open the door.” Greg shifted over several paces. Anthea dropped the smile and adopted the bored-receptionist expression that had led many to underestimate her. Greg leaned against the arm of a chair and checked the second hand of his watch as she opened the door. 

Forty-seven seconds, and half that was likely Anthea explaining it was urgent and feigning ignorance to the origins of the unstamped note. The door swung open, and Mycroft stepped out, eyes a bit wider than usual, scanning the room quickly. Of course he would know Greg wouldn’t personally deliver such a message and then not stick around to see the effect. Anthea trailed after, amused at his reaction and patiently waiting to find out what it was all about (Greg had promised to tell her after, and if he didn’t, well, she was rather good at finding out what she wanted to know anyhow.) 

“Gregory? ....Does this mean what I think it does?” 

“It does.” Greg couldn’t help but break into a ridiculous grin at The Iceman’s expression. “I came straight here.” 

They took several steps towards each other and Greg half raised his arm before they stopped awkwardly. He was surprised to realize that his first instinct had been to _hug_ Mycroft in excitement, and from the twitch in Mycroft’s expression, he’d probably had the same thought. Weird, but no time to stop and analyze it now. 

“How did you come by…”

“I may have to bleach…” 

They both spoke at the same time and laughed. Mycroft recovered first. 

“Do go on, Gregory. How did you learn of this interesting development?” 

“Well. Let me give you a bit of advice: in the future, knock loudly before entering 221B.” 

“Oh dear.” 

“Yes...fortunately, the, um, activities were still in the early stages and they still had _most_ of their clothes on…” 

 


	21. Morning

Greg began to feel more awake as the sky lightened. At least he knew they were driving west. _This could be, probably is, my last morning, and of course the sunrise is behind me. I thought...well. I’m sure Sherlock tried, if anyone bothered to tell him I was missing. Just like the lot down at the Yard to pick now to be too proud. And Mycroft may not even be in the country…_ He let out a sigh.

“What, were you expecting big fluffy pancakes for your last meal?” Luis sneered at him. 

_Did I say that out loud? No, I know I didn’t. I must have made a face._

Greg glanced at Luis without turning his head. He’d already cottoned on that Luis was the most prone to violence in the group; he’d made comments of that sort anytime Greg had attracted his attention in any way. He had complained loudly after having to let Greg out to urinate at the petrol station that if they’d just listened to him and let him knock the pig in the head they wouldn’t have had to bother. While they were driving through the countryside, he’d lobbied for stopping somewhere quiet to “have a bit of fun” with their prisoner, leering at Greg with glittering eyes as he flexed his fists. Big Tony and Miggy looked vaguely interested, but fortunately Alvarez was too nervous to risk stopping and Raul said blood was too hard to get out of the carpet. Greg almost wished the gash on his arm was still oozing enough to make a mess just to spite them, although not bad enough to reinjure himself on purpose. 

Luis’s hangover had him on edge, and he was looking for any excuse to lash out. Greg kept his mouth shut and his eyes toward the road ahead. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Luis grabbed him by the hair and forced him to turn his head. In Greg’s surprised flail, his elbow connected with Arturo’s stomach. Arturo moaned but was too busy trying not to vomit on himself to retaliate. “You make another sound, fucker, and I’ll give you something to make a noise _about_ ,” Luis growled. 

Greg narrowed his eyes. _Well, fuck you, too. They may kill me, but I’m not going quietly. And who knows? It may be THEIR last morning instead of mine, if Mycroft finds us...I KNOW Mycroft and Sherlock have to be looking for me. I’m not going to give up on them yet._

Out loud, he spat out the first response he thought of. “Fucker, huh? Yeah, I’ve got someone to fuck.” _Or, well, at least, I have had before, and I hope to again soon...God...fucking Mycroft…there’s a reason to try to stay alive right there._ “Better than what you are--should I call you a nothing-but-your-own-hander? _Okay, that was rather juvenile…Probably not wise to goad him, but carpe diem, and all that. What was that my niece kept saying last year, YOLO?_

Luis, properly enraged now, twisted his hair tighter until Greg’s eyes watered. He was still handcuffed, but (stupidly, on their part) in the front, so he drove both fists into Luis’s side, forcing him to let go of his hair to defend himself. 

“Puta madre! Pinche gringo!” Luis started spewing curses in Spanish as he shoved Greg back. The scuffle was short and loud and fortunately did not result in serious injury due to the limited space making punching with any force difficult. Several of the other occupants of the vehicle joined in the cacophony of curses, not in an effort to join the fight but out of annoyance with the noise they were making in a small space filled with hangover headaches at six in the morning. 

Big Tony twisted in his seat and yanked Greg away from Luis, tossing him nearly into Arturo’s lap (Arturo’s head knocked into the window, and he groaned and let out a string of expletives of his own, but was too exhausted to do more than slump under the weight and mumble about his head). 

“Fuck it, if _both_ of you don’t shut it right now, I’m going to shove your heads so far up each other’s asses that…” 

The rage in Tony’s bloodshot eyes as he spat out a whole list of anatomically-impossible threats was enough to ensure that all passengers, hostage or otherwise, remained silent and kept their hands to themselves for the rest of the journey. 

_Good job acting like a five-year-old,_ Greg told himself. _Tony reminded me of Dad that time I kept pinching Debbie on the way to Bournemouth. Think I’m going to have a black eye to add to my collection of bruises now._

Greg and Luis spent the next half-hour side-eyeing each other, conveying exactly what they thought of each other with little glares and curled lips. Eddie happened to be glancing back when Greg tried out an expression of utter contempt that he had learned from Sherlock and burst out laughing before glancing at Tony, wincing, and turning to look determinedly out the window. 

When they arrived at the airport, Raul drove around to a back service entrance. They were expected, apparently, as they were waved through the checkpoints and straight into a hangar without so much as a glance at any identification. _Might work in my favor,_ Greg thought. _Bribed guards can have a change of heart_. 

At the second checkpoint, the guard stepped out of his little hut to open the gate onto the tarmac for them. Somehow through the tinted glass of the back windows, it seemed that he looked right at Greg. _He...I’ve seen him before somewhere. Of course I haven’t; how could I? But he looks so familiar somehow._

His speculation only lasted a moment before he had more important issues to pay attention to. The SUV came to a stop about thirty feet from the open end of the hanger, next to a shiny little private jet that was obviously being prepared to taxi out for take off. 

Without a word, they all piled out of the vehicle. Greg stumbled a bit as he stepped down, as Luis pushed him faster than his stiff joints from the night in a chair wanted to move ( _probably on purpose, that wanker)_. He would have gone down, unable to catch himself with his handcuffed arms, if Tony hadn’t stopped just outside of the door. 

“Ooof.” Tony turned to glare at him as he bounced off of his back. Greg glared right back and found himself backed up against the side of the SUV with a large hand at his throat. Tony growled and Luis crowded in, still spoiling for a fight. 

“Tony, get around here,” Raul snapped. Tony snarled but let Greg go. Luis grabbed him by the arm and jerked him roughly around to the other side of the SUV, towards the plane, hissing in his ear as they went.

“You, puta madre, are going to die real slow. Maybe I’ll break every finger, and then carve out your guts and play with ‘em a bit…” 

He stopped short as they caught up to the others, standing around in an awkward semicircle between the SUV and the plane. A man in navy trousers and a crisp white shirt was on the top step of the fold-down stairs that were positioned at the cabin door, handing a suit coat to an unseen flight attendant. He turned and walked down the stairs slowly, looking over the rather-worse-for-wear crew now assembled in front of him with a stern expression. His eyes stopped rather longer on Greg, but he did nothing but tighten his mouth until he reached the ground. 

“Hermano.” 

“Yeah, Antonio, thanks for this, I knew I could count on my brother…” 

“Save it. You certainly should be grateful that you are my brother; if you were anyone else I would have fed you to the dogs years ago. I swore after the mess you made in Tijuana that I wouldn’t be saving you from your stupidity again, so if you weren’t in my debt before, you certainly are now. As it is, I believe Tio Tertullo will want a word with you when we reach the compound.” 

“Aw, come on, Antonio; no need to bother Tio with this.” His brother ignored him. 

“I’m only surprised that you have actually made it this far without being caught. I do _not_ know what you were thinking to bring such a crew on your little road trip. What were you going to have them do, kill any cops that stopped you? No, you just risked the capture of many more men than necessary.” 

Alvarez the younger responded to this only with a mulish expression. 

_So, big brother to the rescue,_ Greg thought. _Sounds familiar. Unfortunately, he seems smarter than Little Brother._

Antonio looked Greg up and down with a sneer. “And who is _this_ that you’ve brought along for the ride?” 

“Aw, him. Yeah, we got ourselves a hostage,” Alvarez announced rather proudly. “Locked the rest of the pigs in the freezer, but brought this one along for leverage. It’s worked so far; no one has bothered us.” He was obviously rather taken aback by his brother’s increasingly livid expression. 

“You are a _complete idiot_ , Armando. What were you thinking? They’d eventually stop looking for you; probably wouldn’t bother chasing you to Mexico, just for that girl who doesn’t have any family here to throw a fit. Taking a _cop_ , though? I can’t believe you made it this far! Probably due to nothing but your dumb luck! Do you even have _idea_ what kind of danger you’ve put us in? Obviously not, or you would _think_ before…” 

Greg took stock of his surroundings as the lecture continued. Several parked planes at the other end of the hangar, a couple of vans parked against the opposite wall, a spare set of rolling stairs in the corner. A stack of large crates and a skip on the fair side of the plane, and, if he remembered correctly--he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by turning to look--there was another large stack of crates behind the SUV. Thirty feet of empty space to the open end of the hangar, and no one in sight outside of their group. No one to try to signal or to notice if he kicked up a fuss. The brother was _definitely_ smarter than the Alvarez he’d been dealing with, which took away the slight hope he’d had of being able to outsmart his captors. 

“...I swear, Armando, this is the last time I will rescue you from the shit you create,” Antonio nearly spit, using his four-inch height advantage to loom over his brother. 

Armando scowled and tried not to look cowed. After a long moment of glaring at his overbearing older brother, he drew himself up. 

_Ah, going to cover his embarrassment with bluster, then,_ Greg thought. 

“Yeah, yeah, let’s just get on with it. We’ll just dump this deadweight, and then…”

_Well, this is it. Never thought I’d die in Wales._

__

__

__“And how, brother, were you planning to do that?” The elder Alvarez brother’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Armando nodded at the nearest of his men. Luis, of course. Luis gave a cheeky grin and lifted his jacket to pat the gun he had holstered. 

“And you don’t think that shooting a gun, in the hanger of an airport, would draw any attention?”

Armando and Luis looked a bit sheepish. 

“I got ya, boss.” Miggy pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and held it up. “Slit his throat, he won’t make a sound.” Armando nodded enthusiastically.

“How did I get a brother so estupido. Che idiota. And what are you going to do with the body? Thought of that? We don’t have time for you to go bury the body somewhere, even if I did trust any of you to do it properly, and if you leave a body here at the airport it’s not going to take long for them to figure out exactly where you’re headed. Do you want the plane to be met with federales when we land?”

Armando looked poised to argue, with that expression of little brothers everywhere who know they’re wrong but whose pride won’t let them back down, but his brother cut him off.

“He’s coming with us. Get him on the plane. We’ll chuck him in the desert on the way to Jimenez.” 

_Dying in Wales is looking better and better_ , Greg thought.

“Or!” Even on such a short acquaintance, Greg had already recognized Miggy as the sort who never knew when to shut up. “We could put him on display at that place in Ciudad Delicias that has all those stuffed animals!” Alvarez Senior’s glare would have melted most men, but Miggy was too amused with himself to notice. “Ha, on the left, we have a great horned owl, and on the right, a genuine English pig.” Eddie giggled, but the rest were smart enough to keep silent and look inconspicuous. 

_Wales. The green hills of Wales, such a lovely place to be laid to rest…_

“On. The. Plane. Now.” Armando jumped slightly. “I ought to take all of you back to Jimenez; I don’t trust you to wipe your own asses, much less manage to not to do something stupid and draw attention to our familia. You’re lucky that I don’t want to see your faces for the next ten hours. If I hear _anything_ about any of you doing something stupid again, you’ll be put to work digging your own graves. You two--he nodded at Eddie and Arturo-- take the SUV and get rid of it, somewhere far away. Drive towards Manchester, maybe, or Leeds. Stay off the main roads. The rest of you take the other van--he indicated one of the parked ones-- and get back to work in London. Carlos will be here next week, so you will report to him…”

The instructions continued, but Greg was not privy to them as Miggy and Big Tony, in unusual silence, took the initiative to jerk him over the to stairs and prod him to climb ahead of them. He thought about launching himself over the side of the stairs to make a run for it, but with his hands still bound, he’d just break an arm or his head, and he’d never make it out of the hanger even if he didn’t. _As much as I’ve puntered on about the state of things here, I never saw myself retiring to Mexico._ Greg chuckled to himself as he stumbled over the threshold, which earned him a shove into the doorframe that made him gasp as his still-concussed head and stiff joints were jarred. 

“No funny business,” one of his captors hissed. 

He was prodded down the aisle past the plush recliner-like seats to the back corner by the bogs and shoved into a seat. _Even the worst seat on this thing is better than any aeroplane seat I’ve ever had; at least if I’m going to die, I’m going to live it up before I go. I bet I don’t get served alcohol or nuts, though._ Big Tony took out a second pair of the cuffs they’d commandeered from Sally and the others and tried to figure out a way to cuff Greg to something. He finally settled on putting the tray table down (polished wood, big enough for an actual plate, none of that flimsy plastic here) and clipping Greg to one of the supports, which meant he couldn’t sit back all the way and was forced to lean slightly forward. _How long is this flight again?? Surely they could spare the time to kill me in Wales after all?_

“Oi, and what am I supposed to do when the stewardess insists that all tray tables must be returned to an upright position?” Greg really shouldn’t be goading anyone right now, but, well, dying anyhow and all that. 

Big Tony let out a huff of disgust and smacked a hand into the back of Greg’s head. His obvious intention was to slam his head on the tray table, but mercifully for Greg, he was distracted by Alvarez Senior calling him to the door to take some bags to stow. Miggy followed him quickly, eager to make himself useful in the wake of his disgrace. 

“The stewardess will forgive you, just this once,” a familiar smooth voice murmured in his ear, as a hand came over his mouth to stifle his gasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pleasedon'tkillmeforthecliffhanger *hides*


	22. October 2015

_**October 2015** _

Mycroft sighed. Why had he agreed to go to this...this _party_? Hosted by his _brother_? 

Granted, their relationship was better than it had been in years. They still bickered, of course; they wouldn’t know how to speak to each other any other way. They both enjoyed bickering, really; it added a bit of a game to the conversation when they were constantly watching for ways to fit in a barb or one-up the other, certainly better than small talk. The barbs lacked the same venom they used to have, though; a Sherlock who was thoroughly loved and accepted by John felt less need to prove himself by trying to be cleverer than his brother, and Mycroft, after seeing his brother spend two years destabilizing Moriarty’s network and selflessly protect John as far as he could throughout the entire A.G.R.A. debacle, not to mention learning to _love_ someone, had realized his brother really had grown up. He was no longer the rebellious, drug-addicted terror he had once been, and slowly he had regained his older brother’s respect. 

Still, Mycroft wasn’t really the party type. He could manage the ones for work; usually, they were impersonal events held to show off wealth and power, meant for networking in fancy clothes rather than real enjoyment. They were sometimes tedious, but there was a game to be played, being introduced to this person, dropping a certain bit of gossip in the ears of another, observing another to learn their tells, and Mycroft knew the rules. But these intimate little friends-and-family things that either his parents or John seemed to feel necessary always made him feel...awkward. When he was younger, he’d been manipulated (his mother could be quite persuasive when she had a mind to be--he had had his beginnings somewhere, after all) into attending this and that, but small talk was so _boring_ when there was no diplomatic advantage or intelligence secrets to be gleaned from it. So he’d deduced that Mrs McCleary had three Shih Tzus; so what? Parties of that sort had made him want to act like his brother. Shooting the wall might actually be fun. 

He’d been talked into showing up to John’s birthday party a few months ago; he hadn’t exactly had _fun_ , but it could have gone worse. John had been feeding Sherlock alcohol since four in the afternoon, so he was mellow and rather giggly, which was a plus, since he wasn’t in a state to pick fights with Mycroft to pass the time. The downside had been that Drunk Sherlock found an inordinate amount of amusement in grabbing John’s arse every time it came within range, and he really could have done with watching _that_ all evening. He’d hoped to at least have Lestrade to share eye rolls about the arse-grabbing with, but, alas, he’d already been invited to some major life event or other of one of his nieces or nephews, which Mycroft had not been aware of before he had accepted the invitation.

Besides all that, this was a _Halloween_ party. With _costumes._ His British heart felt he ought to boycott the event as Halloween celebrations had been slowly dying out in England until recent years; the current craze had wandered back over from America. He felt the need to be a curmudgeon about American imports. And really, _costumes_. 

Secretly, Mycroft had enjoyed dressing up as a child; the same lilt to his personality that made him the enigmatic Iceman he was as an adult, able to project whatever emotions and attitudes needed depending on the situation at hand, had given him a fascination for disguises. What details defined a character, and how could he replicate them? The problem was that the characters he found interesting enough to emulate were not the same ones the other children his age found interesting. He still remembered the confused looks from a gaggle of seven-year-old princesses, ghosts, and supermans when he had tried to explain that he was Winston Churchill, didn’t the cigar (that his grandfather did not know he had filched) and the bowtie give it away? There were worse than confused looks at that party when he was twelve; however, the jeers from the other boys who found his Edgar Allan Poe costume very uncool had not prevented him popping his stuffed raven on top of the bookcase in his room when he got home. He’d smiled to himself every time he glanced up at it until he left for university. 

But now...he was an adult. A man in his forties with a serious career and no time for such shenanigans. His talent for disguise went into disguising how bored he was by the Prime Minister’s opinions on tax reform and disguising his true role and power, meekly listening to the Singaporean ambassador condescend to him until he gleaned the intel he needed and then sending the ambassador scuttling when the Iceman returned. He didn’t have time for this, and he would feel unbearably silly in anything he could think of. 

Left to himself, he would have just gone (if no work obligations came up to ~~give him an excuse~~ prevent him) without a costume; no one really expected him to be the life of the party anyhow. Unfortunately, he’d been running late to pick Gregory up for their monthly dinner meeting last week after a meeting had run over (he was still considering accidentally reassigning the Ambassador to Italy to a position in a yurt in Mongolia--although, on second thought, the man might enjoy the sheep too much), and Anthea had still been in the car when Greg had asked if he was attending the party. To be honest, the primary reason he was even considering attending was that Greg was going to be there. He was quite curious as to what the man would choose to wear to such an event. 

“Hey, Myc!” Mycroft glared at the nickname, more out of a lifetime of habit rather than any real pique. “Thanks for picking me up. Oh, h’lo, Anthea.” 

Anthea lifted her eyes from her phone long enough to nod politely. 

“So, didja get the message from John about the thing at their place next weekend? He said he’d left you a voicemail.” 

“Yeees. The...Halloween party.” Only someone as well-practised as Mycroft could squeeze that much disdain into seven syllables. 

“Mycroft!” Greg teased. “Don’t be like that. You’ve been in meeting after meeting every time I’ve talked to you; some silliness won’t hurt you.” 

Mycroft sniffed his doubt. 

“And I know you’re probably thinking that dressing up is beneath you.”

“Quite.” 

“Aww. I won’t have time to do anything crazy, but I’ll come up with something. It’s good to let your hair down now and then, yeah?” 

“I am not accustomed to... _letting my hair down,_ ” Mycroft harrumphed. 

“For me? Please?” Greg tried the puppy dog look, which he could certainly pull off with his chocolate brown eyes, and Mycroft’s iron will would have been broken if it had continued for half a second more. “Anthea, make him!” 

Anthea had only smiled her amused little smile and hummed noncommittally.

*****

Drats. He never knew when that woman would take an interest in his personal life, but on the occasions that she did…well. Mycroft was known for his skills in directing a situation, using manipulation when necessary, and she had apparently been paying attention. And then some. 

**On Monday:**

“Anthea.” 

“Yes, sir?” Anthea glanced up from her phone with a vacant expression. 

“Can you explain _why_ there is a red-silk-lined cloak, temporary black hair dye, an eighteenth-century replica suit, a vial of fake blood, a remote control flying bat, and _these,_ ” he dumped a set of plastic fangs onto her desk, “in _my_ office?” 

“Oh my. I haven’t the faintest idea how that could have happened. I’m shocked that so many deliveries were made without my notice.” 

Mycroft just rolled his eyes. He’d designed the security of his office to be _Sherlock_ -proof, so the chances that Anthea was unaware of an entrance were nil. 

“…But, since they _are_ there, you might as well make use of them for your brother’s party. Just since it’s convenient.” 

“ _Convenient?_ I hope you find working out of a Quonset hut in Qaanaaq _convenient._ ” 

The offending items disappeared during his mid morning meeting with the Prime Minister. 

**On Tuesday:**

It took every bit of Mycroft’s iron control not to let out a high-pitched shriek when he opened his office door. He slammed it shut again so hard that the sound echoed down the hall. With a very white face and an unsettling bit of nausea, he turned around and walked straight out of the building and departed to the Diogenes Club, where he may have had a few sips of brandy despite the early hour and stayed to conduct all of his business remotely for the rest of the day. 

“Hmm…I suppose that’s a no to the clown costume, then,” Anthea commented to the surprised agent who had been handing her a stack of dossiers when Mr Holmes had behaved so oddly. 

**On Wednesday:**

Mycroft side-eyed his supremely-innocent looking assistant very hard as he passed her desk on Wednesday morning, but she offered no comment other than a good-morning hum and continued typing. 

He cautiously opened the door, prepared to take himself off to Japan immediately (such a nice _orderly_ country) to surprise the ambassador with an impromptu and unwarranted inspection if those… _things_ …had not been removed from his formerly peaceful sanctuary. 

No clown paraphernalia in sight. He could breathe. Well, maybe. What fresh hell was _this?_

A large box, of the sort that appliances come in, was sitting in the middle of the floor, draped with a pale blue tablecloth. A large hole was cut in the top, and two smaller holes on each side. Several items were sitting on the box: a box of tissues, a crime novel with a garish cover, a pair of glasses, a small alarm clock. A ~~swift kick~~ gentle nudge with his toe proved them to be securely glued down. Circling the offending objects revealed the writing on the other side, in big bold red letters: ONE NIGHT STAND. 

Mycroft was not generally given to cursing, but he muttered several choice words when he turned and found a lampshade that had been turned into a hat, complete with a pull string, sitting on the desk.

He felt like his dignity was suffering just from knowing that costume idea _existed._

**On Thursday:**

“Anthea.” 

“Yes, sir?” 

“Remove it.” 

“I thought you were fond of silver foxes.” 

“What in the world could I ever have possibly said or intimated that would lead you to believe that I had an interest in foxes? Especially a _silver_ one over our own British red foxes?” 

“Oh, just an impression I had. I apologize for the misunderstanding.” 

“And even if silver foxes had ever crossed my mind, I have no interest in a full-body fur suit.” 

“Some people dress in such costumes for pleasure.” 

“I am going for tea. If there is anything with fur in my office when I return, you will find yourself assigned to kitchen duty at the outpost in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy.” 

She met his eyes calmly.

“With Agent McLaggen.” 

She turned back to her computer with a horrified expression at his cruelty. 

“Understood, sir.”

**On Friday:**

Mycroft was almost afraid to enter his office and tarried in the hallway exchanging small talk with a colleague he usually forgot existed. _What am I doing? I am making small talk as procrastination. Surely nothing she could think of would be worse than what I’ve already experienced this week._

Anthea barely acknowledged him as he passed her desk, eyes glued to the screen and apparently deep in thought while typing furiously. She greeted him with only a hum before grabbing her phone and ranting at some unfortunate soul in Vietnamese, one of the few major languages Mycroft was not fluent in (over the years they’d worked together, Mycroft and Anthea had decided to learn different languages from each other, other than the four they already had in common, so as to cover as many as possible within the office). 

Well then. With a sigh, he pushed open the door. No face paint or furry slippers or fangs in sight. On the centre of his desk was a bright red silk tie and pocket square and a note. He picked up the note and read it as he circled the desk: 

_Wear these with that black pinstripe suit from two seasons ago. I know you still have it._

Mycroft sighed again. For a single man with few friends, he certainly didn’t have much privacy. He had no doubt some agent or other if not Anthea herself had been snooping in his closet. _Someday, I should leave something truly horrific hidden in there, and just wait for someone to be “helpful.” Sherlock might have some ideas…well, maybe not. He wouldn’t think anything actually WAS horrific, he’s built up such a tolerance for gore. Gregory might enjoy the idea, though…_

Well, wearing an old suit wasn’t so terrible. He’d never worn that one much; the pinstripes had been a touch too bold for his taste at the time. In his chair was a nondescript box. He opened it to find a black fedora and a box of Cuban cigars. Ah. He was beginning to see where this was going. He set the box aside and sat down, kicking another box that had been tucked up under the desk in the process. Upon examination, he found a pair of shiny black and white shoes, much cheaper and more ostentatious than he would generally wear. 

So. A mobster. Other than the hat, it wasn’t so far from his usual attire, if a bit bolder. This…wouldn’t be _so_ bad. If he felt overly silly, he could easily discard the hat, after all. It might be rather… _fun_ , actually; swagger a bit and offer Gregory a cigar… At least it was not nearly as objectionable as Anthea’s other suggestions. 

Oh. 

Mycroft sighed yet again. He’d lost count of his sighs for the day and it was only half eight. She had played him very well. If she’d presented him with the gangster idea right away, he’d have waved her off and commented on the banality of it all. But now, after having been introduced to true horrors, it seemed a reasonable and apt suggestion. 

She’d be smug for a month. But at least Gregory would appreciate it. And somehow, “Gregory would like it” had become a valid reason to do a great many things. The man did not realize his immense power. 

*****

Mycroft sat in his car for a moment outside 221B gazing thoughtfully at his fedora. The suit still fit fairly well; the jacket was a little big (he’d increased his time on the treadmill over the past two years) and the trousers were just a bit tight in the thighs (for the same reason). Granted, from the research into stereotypical fashion styles among early-twentieth-century mobsters that he really hadn’t spent two whole hours looking at last night, the suit was not precisely the preferred style, and wasn’t quite the chalk stripe that had been popular at the time, but he thought the effect of the pinstripe was close enough, considering ~~Gregory’s~~ the party attendees’ general knowledge of fashion trends.

He had stopped by his tailor’s this morning and had a second row of buttons added and the waist nipped in a bit. Although he hadn’t requested it, the man had put two and two together with the modifications towards a more vintage style and the date and added little removable shoulder pads as well to give a bit more of the stereotypical silhouette. The red tie and pocket square popped nicely against the black and white, and he had found some rather ostentatious cuff links (a gift from a visiting dignitary who unfortunately had more goodwill than taste) to wear with his French cuffs. 

“We’ve arrived, sir,” his driver broke into his thoughts. Normally Roger remained silent, but he was taking up a lane on a busy street and had been given three stern looks already for taking so long to deposit his passenger. 

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Mycroft took up the box of Cuban cigars, settled the hat on his head, and stepped out on the pavement. 

A momentary relapse into the boy who had enjoyed the art of disguise hit him, and he adjusted the fedora to a rakish angle just as Mrs Hudson, wearing a lavender flapper dress and an enormous matching feather attached to a headband, opened the door. 

“Mycroft, dear! Oh, don’t you look nice!” She smiled at him brightly as she shooed him towards the stairs. A bit too brightly. _Sampled the punch as she made it,_ he deduced. 

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Your dress is quite the bee’s knees,” he replied as he pulled out a cigar and stuck it in his mouth. A little foray into the slang of the 1920s had been one of the rabbit trails that he’d wandered off into during his mobster research the night before. 

She giggled. “That’s exactly what that dishy detective said when he came in! You boys think just alike!” _Ah, so Gregory is already here. At least I shall have a comrade to keep me sane if Sherlock’s fascination with his flatmate’s arse has not abated in the past two months._ He didn’t even notice the sly little look she gave him as she spoke about the D.I. 

“If you light that nasty thing, be sure to do so by a window. And for heaven’s sake don’t catch the curtains on fire.” 

Mycroft snorted. Who was he, his brother? 

“Go on up, now, I’ve just got to finish icing the pumpkin cake!” She scuttled back into her flat, from whence came a delightful aroma.

As Mycroft made his way up the stairs, he could hear several voices, the loudest of which was of course his brother's. 

"John! My tail has come unattached again!" 

He paused and rolled his eyes. Lovely. His brother had, no doubt, chosen a costume with a tail in order to have a legitimate reason to ask John to put his hands in the vicinity of his arse repeatedly. The tail in question--and he really wasn't looking forward to finding out what creature the tail supposedly belonged to--was almost certainly rigged to be easily detached. He did know his brother, after all. 

Pausing to tip his fedora even lower over one eye and puffing out his chest, he stepped into the room. If he was going to risk embarrassing himself by attending a costume party, he might as well enjoy himself. He had once played Lady Bracknell, after all; he knew how to make an entrance. 

"Mycroft?" 

He tilted his head up to see from under his fedora. 

And stopped breathing.

Gregory was not five feet away from him; apparently, he'd heard him coming up the stairs and had been on his way to greet him at the door, seeing as the hosts were in the kitchen doing something questionable with safety pins and trousers and something furry. 

Oh dear god. Leather. And tight jeans. _Leather._

Very few times in his life had Mycroft ever had the experience of his mind just going blank, but it happened now. 

Well, not quite blank, thoughts were coming now, but rather scrambled, anyhow. The same few words just kept repeating.

Gregory. Silver. Leather. Jeans. Oh God. Leather jacket. Please. Why...leather. Am I drooling? Please don't let me be drooling. 

Mycroft's favourite fantasy for private moments, ever since he was fourteen and had seen an extremely fit older teen on a motorcycle, had involved leather. A leather jacket, originally, that symbol of cool rebellion in all the old movies he liked, and later on, when he'd learned of their existence, he'd had some very pleasant thoughts about leather trousers. It wasn't a fetish, really, just a bit of a kink, maybe; he didn't think of a man in a leather jacket every time he fantasized, and he'd never actually had leather involved in any way in any of his past assignations and had enjoyed them regardless, or if he hadn’t, it wasn’t the lack of leather that was the issue, but still... 

And now his most private thoughts were standing right in front of him, in the person of his closest friend, to whom he’d always been attracted but had spent years pretending not to be. 

He didn't even notice that the other occupants of the room--Molly Hooper, two women he would have recognized from the roster from the clinic where John worked had he been looking at them, Mike Stamford and his wife, and a lanky man with brilliantly red hair that was obviously a former soldier--were all glancing at the two of them knowingly while pretending to carry on with their conversations. Mike had a rather smug look, as if he'd just won a bet, as he whispered something to his wife. 

He also didn’t notice that Greg had also paused to stare until suddenly time started moving again. 

_Oh dear god; he had to have noticed my reaction. Years of carefully monitoring myself to be sure I evinced only the level of physical intimacy appropriate to our association...he will quite rightly be shocked, and I’ll have made him uncomfortable in my presence; he’ll make excuses to meet less frequently, and then…_

"Wow, Mycroft, you actually dressed up! You look great!" Greg was smiling at him appreciatively. "Come on in; I'll get you a drink. Wine, or something stronger?" 

_Is it possible that my gaffe has passed unnoticed? I should hate to know that my inconvenient appreciation of his form had caused him pain, or led to the cooling of our friendship._

Greg was his friendly self, although his voice seemed a bit rougher than usual. Mycroft was almost fooled, but then he met Greg's eyes as he replied. 

"Yes, thank you, wine would be..." Pupils dilated, eyes wide. "...fine. Yes. Ahem. Thank you." 

He's aroused. He's aroused and looking at me. Is it me? It is quite likely that he was flirting with someone else and my arrival was an interruption. Is it possible that _he_ could be capable of feeling attraction towards _me?_ Mycroft’s lightning-fast brain quickly supplied various little instances of times over the past few months in which Gregory had not flinched away from accidental touches or had initiated the types of small touches (a hand on the shoulder when passing behind him when he was seated, a nudge with an elbow when Mycroft had said something witty, a hand on his elbow to warn him of an approaching teenager on a skateboard) that most people avoided with Mycroft. _Could he? No, of course n..nnngh._

And then Gregory winked at him. _Winked_. Of all the juvenile acknowledgements of the loss of his composure, the infuriating man had _winked_ at him. At _Mycroft Holmes_. The cheek. The condescension. The _inappropriateness._

Mycroft loved it. 

He needed to store the memory for later perusal, though, because certain body parts had apparently become aware of that brazen wink as well, and approved heartily. 

Greg moved off to get the promised wine, so Mycroft took the chance to glance around the room just to be certain that Lestrade’s signs of sexual interest had not been caused by another party. No. Married. Lesbian. Married. Old enough to be his mother. Straight male. Texting with a love interest who is not present (note to self: investigate Ms Hooper's current amorous interest; no need to repeat the Jim-the-IT-guy incident. Or the Tom-the-stand-in incident. Or the...well, just do a background check, anyhow). There was no one else that Gregory could have been flirting with to explain his physical symptoms. 

Molly looked up from her phone and caught Mycroft's eye where he was still standing, a foot inside the door. He didn't know what expression was on his face, but she smirked. Oh dear god. 

"Excuse me, dear!" Mrs Hudson came bustling in behind him and snapped him out of his stupor. 

He stepped out of the doorway and wandered over to the window, twirling his cigar in his fingers and depositing the box with the rest of the cigars on the mantle for now. 

"Here you are." Gregory passed him his glass of wine with that cheeky little grin that Mycroft had always found adorable. He had? Yes, he supposed he had, but _acknowledging_ it, even to himself...

"Thank you, Gregory. I must say, the greaser look...suits you." 

"Hey, it was easy, at least. White t-shirt, my old jacket from my motorcycle days, these old boots, slicked back hair...and I wore these old jeans that I don't even know why I still had in the back of the wardrobe. They’re a bit tight,” and _oh dear god_ the man twisted halfway around as if to glance at his own arse to check the fit, drawing _Mycroft_ ’ _s_ eyes to that part of his anatomy as well. They _were_ tighter than anything he’d seen Lestrade wearing before, but that was not a problem. Quite the opposite of a problem. Mycroft tore his eyes away, before the not-a-problem-trousers caused any problems in his own trousers, as their wearer continued speaking. “...but my newer jeans just weren’t the right style.” 

“They…” Mycroft cleared his throat. “They are quite suitable. They remind me of Marlon Brando’s costume in _The Wild One,_ from…” 

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen that one! That’s the one where the biker gang gets thrown out of town, right?” 

Chatting about classic films kept the two occupied until Mrs Hudson announced that the refreshments were ready. 

*****

Greg Lestrade had been thinking about what to wear to the costume party ever since Sherlock had texted him “Saturday 7 pm. The detective costume that you try to make convincing on a regular basis will be sufficient,” and he’d texted John for an explanation. 

He’d googled for ideas a couple of times while procrastinating paperwork, but everything was either ridiculous or would be too expensive or time-consuming to buy or make, or all of the above. Then along came a demanding case, and no one had much time to contemplate Halloween Costumes, and there he was, staring into his wardrobe on Friday night. 

He couldn’t quite explain to himself why, but he wasn’t in the mood for something silly. He’d sometimes done punny costumes that everyone groaned at before, but that wasn’t what he wanted this time. He wanted to look...nice. Attractive. Attractive? Well, he’d been divorced for four years now. He’d dated a bit, but never anything more serious. Maybe it was time to put himself back out there? He really hadn’t been all that lonely; he didn’t feel desperate. But lately it just seemed as if...something...was niggling at the back of his brain. He wanted something. He wasn’t quite sure _what_ , but it wasn’t just a shag. 

Eventually, he went with something that had always made him feel good--his old leather jacket. He could be a greaser without having to go out a buy anything, at least. 

***** 

Ah. That’s what it was. The odd longing that he hadn’t quite been able to name. 

Greg had heard the footsteps on the stairs and had moved towards the door to greet the newcomer (hoping it was Mycroft so he’d have someone to complain to about the nightmares Sherlock’s costume was going to give him). Someone ought to greet the guest, whoever it was, as the hosts were preoccupied with their wardrobe malfunctions. 

And it was Mycroft. And with that hat, tilted rakishly down over his brow, with that glint in his eye. 

Greg had always thought him an attractive man; he was tall, with long legs and a very nice arse (which he had always chastised himself for noticing...until, wait, at what point had he given himself permission to look? Because he’d certainly been looking.), with that reddish tint and a bit of curl to his hair, and with his fancy suits. But it was more than physical attraction; there was his intelligence, and his air of mystery, and his love of good tea. There were old movies and good wine and Italian food. There was a snarky sense of humour and a dedication to his work and a love of caramel. There was the way he cared so deeply, but quietly and without expecting reciprocation, so that most people never saw it…

How long had he felt this way? He’d long since realized that Mycroft had become his best friend. But this...he _wanted_ him. And while he’d just managed to put it into words in his thoughts, this wasn’t new. 

_Shit._

He was just staring at Mycroft while his epiphany ran through his brain. And Mycroft was a Holmes; of course he’d realize quite soon what Greg was thinking. 

What if he didn’t...what if he says...stop staring...Wait. He’s staring at _me_. 

Greg looked into his eyes. And while he wasn’t a Holmes, he was pretty sure he was deducing that expression correctly. 

_Oh god. He’s staring at me, too. He wants me. But...what if I’m wrong? Bit awkward if your best mate is lusting after you and you don’t want it. I’m almost certain, though…we’re still staring…say something._

"Wow, Mycroft, you actually dressed up! You look great!" Greg smiled, hoping Mycroft would hear the appreciation in his voice. "Come on in; I'll get you a drink. Wine, or something stronger?" 

He took a risk and winked as he stepped away to get their beverages. _Why did I do that? That wasn’t terribly subtle; either I gave away my thoughts, or he thinks I’m mocking him for his...but what if...he’s my best friend. I’m attracted to him and I’m fairly certain he’s attracted to me...this could actually work. If he wants it. Would he be interested in a relationship?_ Thinking hard over the wine bottle as he poured, he decided to try flirting; nothing that he couldn’t explain away rationally if Mycroft seemed uncomfortable. 

*****

“...these old jeans that I don't even know why I still had in the back of the wardrobe. They’re a bit tight…” 

Ah. There. He _definitely_ checked out my arse. 

_What else can I do to test the waters?_

*****

“These caramel apple things are amazing. Have you tried one yet?” 

“I must have passed them by when I was filling my plate. I will be sure to sample one when I am next in the kitchen to refresh my drink.” 

“Aw, as much you love caramel, this can’t wait. Here, I picked up several; have one.” 

Mycroft indicated his hands, completely occupied with a drink in one hand and a plate in the other, with his chin. 

“Open your mouth.” 

“Really, Gregory, I...umph.” 

“Good, huh?” 

Mycroft was still chewing, so he just nodded, a bit wide-eyed. 

_Oh god my fingers touched his lips I touched his lips I touched his lips._

*****

“Hey, we’re going to play Halloween Pictionary. If you want to play--yes, Sherlock, you’re playing--grab your drink and come into the sitting room,” John announced. 

Greg was just coming back from the loo. 

“You might want to drag a chair from the table with you, Greg,” John called as he appeared in the doorway. 

He scanned the room. Mycroft was sitting at one end of the couch. There were already three occupants, but Molly and that nurse (Lisa?) were small...Greg smiled to himself. 

“Nah, I’m good. Four can fit over here if we squish a bit. You don’t mind, do you, Molly?” 

“Of course not! We can squeeze you in!” She shifted over a bit, but not _too_ much. Ah, she knows the game. Greg just ignored the look she exchanged with Mike Stamford. 

Mycroft looked startled and opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out as the arse he so admired turned and deposited itself much more in his personal space than it had ever been before. 

“Okay, Mycroft? You don’t mind being a bit cosy, do you?” 

He just nodded, seemingly still at a loss for words. When was the last time anyone had been touching so much of the untouchable British Government at once? 

Just then, Molly wriggled a bit to get comfortable, subtly nudging Greg into leaning even more against the man beside him who was trying very hard not to blush. 

“...Not...not at all.” Mycroft finally found his words, albeit a bit breathlessly. 

Greg just beamed up at him and made no effort to keep any space between them. 

_Our thighs are touching our thighs are touching I could put my hand on his leg so easily and if he’d just put his arm on the back of the couch I could cuddle up against him but I don’t want to scare him off oh god our thighs are touching._

*****

“Gregory, do allow me to refresh your drink.” 

“Oh! Please.” He smiled up at Mycroft. “Thank you.” He avoided his usual “Thanks, mate!” You never knew what little thing this brilliant man would catch up on. 

Mycroft took the glass from his hand, allowing their fingers to brush just a second or two longer than truly necessary. 

Gregory smiled to himself as the object of his musing turned towards the kitchen. Just a little brush of fingers...but Mycroft never touched anyone accidentally. He’d take that as a good sign. 

*****

“Hey! Molly!” Greg was just a bit tipsy but was acting slightly more drunk that he really was as an excuse for what he was about to do. “Take our picture!” 

Molly had been taking photos on her phone of everyone in costume, probably to put on facebook, or maybe for her scrapbook. (Or maybe to have a bit of blackmail on Sherlock when he was next annoying; he might not mind wearing _that_ among friends if it amused John, but it would knock the edges off of his serious and austere reputation if released to the general public. The woman had picked up some Sherlock-wrangling skills along the way, after all). 

“Sure, Greg! Smile!” She held up her phone and snapped. 

“Another one!” He flipped up the collar of his leather jacket and tried to make his best tough-guy expression. 

There was a slight noise as the man standing beside him inhaled rather sharply. 

“Here, make sure you take one of Mycroft!” Molly nodded and raised the camera again. “Wait, here, take another with the hat...put your hat back on, where’s the cigar…” 

Mycroft complied without a word; it was rare for his photo to be taken, but he must have had a bit much punch as he didn’t feel like arguing. 

“Perfect!” Molly snapped away as he tilted the fedora to the right angle and gripped the cigar with his teeth. “Now just hold the cigar...great.” 

He started to reach for the hat to remove it when she continued. “Now, I want one of both of you together. Group shots fit so much better in my scrapbook!” 

Greg smirked and stood next to Mycroft, making a series of normal and ridiculous expressions as she snapped. 

“A bit closer...it’s hard to fit you both in…” She’d managed to fit them both in just fine in the last five shots, but Greg recognized an opportunity when it was given to him. He’d need to buy her a drink sometime for being such a good wingman. And she’d better text him those pictures.

He picked up his glass of punch that he’d sat down on the desk during the pictures and downed the rest (so that he could blame it on the alcohol if this went poorly), and then grabbed Mycroft’s arm, tossing it around his own shoulders, and pulling the man in with an arm about the waist until their hips bumped. Mycroft was too surprised to find himself manhandled to protest. 

“That’s it, much better! Smile!” 

*****

Greg and Mycroft were actually the last to leave, other than Mrs Hudson, of course, who was still gathering the dishes she’d brought up. Greg was standing in the doorway checking his pockets to make sure he still had his keys, phone and wallet, mostly as an excuse to delay so that he and Mycroft could walk out together. Mycroft left his glass in the sink and picked up the fedora that had been perched on the skull for safekeeping at some point, and then turned for the door himself. Over Mycroft’s shoulder, Greg could see Sherlock looking back and forth between the two of them speculatively. He finally snorted and opened his mouth to say something, but John clapped a hand over his mouth and pulled him back into the kitchen by the tail. (The now _very_ securely attached tail; John wasn’t stupid and had hissed halfway through the party that he was either duct taping Sherlock’s tail or his mouth, his choice.) 

“Night Greg, Mycroft! Thanks for coming!” John called from somewhere out of Greg’s sight. 

“Yeah, cheers, mate! Thanks!” he shouted back. Mycroft stayed silent until they reached the foot of the stairs. Greg, one hand on the door handle, turned back to glance up at him.

“Gregory.” Mycroft was looking at him rather intently. 

“Yeah, Myc?” He tried to not look like he was expecting anything. Mycroft might need some time to process their flirting and decide how he wanted to respond. 

“Would you be amenable to meeting for dinner on Friday night?” 

“Oh...sure, yeah, I don’t think I’ve got anything in particular going.” 

“I...would like to take you somewhere...less casual than our usual meeting places.” Mycroft seemed a bit hesitant.

“Of course, if you’d like; just let me know what I ought to wear if it’s some place fancy.” Greg smiled back at him. 

“I...if you are amenable, I would like to suggest that this rendezvous be slightly different in character from our usual meetings to discuss my wayward brother.” 

Greg took pity on him; it was clear what he wanted but also that he wasn’t quite able to say it plainly.

“It’s a date, Mycroft,” he said a bit more softly. He reached out and brushed gently against Mycroft’s hand with his fingers. 

Mycroft uncurled his fingers, and they twisted, seemly without his will, to brush back. Both of them glanced down to where this tiny touch had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. 

Greg heard Mycroft swallow. “Yes, I...do believe that I would…” Greg gave his fingers a squeeze and he stopped talking. 

“So, Friday night.” 

“Yes; I will be in touch to arrange a time and to inform you of the venue.” 

“I’ll look forward to it, then,” Greg replied, still speaking softly. This was a major step; it was a risk, after so many years of friendship, but it could be amazing...he was a bit nervous himself, and Mycroft obviously was, too, probably even more so since he dated so rarely. Greg had heard him refer to someone he had dated briefly in uni, so he knew he had been on a date before, but in the ten years--has it really been ten years?--since they’d met, he’d never known him to mention anyone. He wanted to hug him but wasn’t sure if it would be too much. Probably.

After a moment more, he finally broke the small point of contact to open the door. Mycroft collected his umbrella from the stand and followed him out. An unoccupied taxi was coming down the street, and Greg knew he had better snag it while it was there; who knows how long it would take to find another on a Saturday night at this time. 

“Would you like to share a taxi, or do you have a car coming?” 

“My driver is already enroute and should arrive momentarily.” Greg thought he looked both disappointed and relieved at the same time. He would have enjoyed a few more minutes in the man’s company, but he was looking rather overwhelmed by their moment at the door, so it was likely better for him to have some processing time before things went any further, and he didn’t know if he could resist touching him again if they rode together. 

“I’ll see you Friday, then, yeah?” Greg gave him the most comforting smile he could muster as the taxi slowed to a stop. He reached out and squeezed his hand just briefly. “Goodnight, Mycroft.” 

“Goodnight, Gregory.” 

Greg shut the door behind him and gave the cabbie his address. He was feeling a bit overwhelmed himself, if he was honest; so many things had clicked in his mind over the course of the evening. How had they been moving towards this for so long without realizing it? Because of course now that he looked back, he realized his feelings weren’t new, but had been growing so gradually that he hadn’t realized. 

_Friday night._ _If I can just make it to Friday night, I have a date--a date!--with Mycroft Holmes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter, finally! I'm sorry to leave you all on a big cliffhanger with my last chapter and then take so long to post! Due to getting a new laptop, being busy with work stuff, and just some kind of mental block on getting the last bits of this written, it's taken me much longer than I anticipated. Thank you for your patience! (And those of you who weren't patient, well, that made me happy, too, that you like this story enough to be impatient ;) ). 
> 
> I kept going back and forth between Mycroft and Greg's points of view during the party; I hope that wasn't confusing. If it was let me know and I'll see if I can rework it a bit. 
> 
> And before you ask, no, I haven't quite decided what exactly Sherlock is dressed as. I know it has a tail, amuses John, and will give Greg nightmares. And you know Sherlock isn't going to wear something that he doesn't look good in. Cat? Rabbit? Peacock? I don't think otters have much of tails. Hmmm....
> 
> Edit: I stand corrected! Otters have very nice tails! I should have googled before throwing that out. :) So, otters are back on the possibility list. Another nice suggestion as been a lemur. That long stripey tail would be a fun one to have!


	23. The Plane

Greg’s mind momentarily went blank with shock and relief and disbelief--was he finally cracking under the pressure, and imagining voices? But no, there was a very real hand over his mouth. And unlike any of the other hands that had come close to his teeth over the past eighteen hours, he wasn’t tempted to bite this one. Well. Under the right circumstances, and if the owner of the hand were into that sort of thing...Stop. Focus. NOT the time. 

“Mmm?” 

“Shhh,” the voice whispered into his ear. “Stay quiet; don’t let on that we are acquainted just yet. We’ve taken over the plane.” 

Greg twisted his head around to look up into the eyes of the man he’d been thinking of all night. 

Mycroft.

Mycroft was here, on the plane. 

“Are you injured?” Satisfied that Greg’s shock had worn off enough that he wouldn’t burst out with any exclamations, Mycroft dropped his hand from his mouth to allow him to speak. Greg nearly leaned into the hand like a cat seeking attention as it caressed his stubble-covered cheek.

“Nothing serious. Just bruises, concussion,” he answered quietly. 

“Will you be able to withstand a few more minutes without medical attention, without being in too much distress?” 

“Yes. I assume you have a plan.” 

He glanced up into those grey eyes again. The look Mycroft was giving him...he’d never seen him with that expression, exactly--anyone who had seen it would never again believe the Iceman line. Greg felt a ray of warmth in the early morning chill. 

They heard the distinct noise of footsteps on the stairs outside the cabin door, and Antonio Alvarez’s voice coming closer. 

Mycroft slid a small key into Greg’s hands. “Free yourself from the table if you can, but don’t draw attention to the fact that you are no longer tethered.” 

Greg just nodded and turned his hand over so that the key wasn’t visible at a glance. Alvarez was at the cabin door, but turned to call down instructions about a particular piece of luggage. 

Mycroft touched Greg’s cheek to bring his attention back to his face. 

“I love you.” 

Greg sucked in a breath. That one sentence made all the drama and fear of the last day seem like nothing at all. _Love. He loves me. Mycroft Holmes loves me. I should say it back..._ but there was no time.

Mycroft stepped back into the shadows of the service alcove by the loo as Alvarez stepped into the cabin, followed by his disgraced brother and a couple of his own men, burly expressionless bodyguards. Greg quickly dropped his eyes, staring at the table he was attached to and trying not to draw attention to himself as he tried to school his expression. It would be rather suspicious if they saw the soppy look on his face; rather inappropriate for a kidnapping victim enroute to his own body dump in the desert. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and stepped forward again; as he passed, Greg realized he was dressed in the uniform of a flight attendant. The navy suit was very nice, as suited a crew that served on private jets, although not quite up to Mycroft’s normal bespoke standard; the white bars on the cuff and the insignia with wings on the lapel just made the man look a bit rakish. _A man in uniform_... _hmm, and it’s a bit tight in the rear, and just a shade too short in the legs--he has such nice long legs--not that they’ll notice; he’s lucky that he was able to find one that fits as well it does, really._

 _You are a kidnapping victim; stop perving_ , Greg reminded himself. But, well, Mycroft… _Stop it. Do what he told you and watch for an opportunity to uncuff yourself._

“Gentlemen, may I take your coats?” Mycroft adopted an oily tone and ducked his head respectfully. 

Alvarez Sr gave him a quick assessing glance, but then grunted and shrugged out of his coat and handed it over. Mycroft draped it over his arm and stepped aside to wait for Armando to shed his as well. Armando was obviously in a bit of a sulk and barely glanced at him as he tossed his coat into Mycroft’s waiting hands. Greg didn’t know if they typically had different attendants on every flight or if they just didn’t notice that Mycroft was not one of their usuals; they said nothing, but then again, as Sherlock had pointed out before, people tended not to notice service personnel. 

_Idiots, as Sherlock would say. Isn’t it unusual for a flight attendant to be that tall? ...I’ve been hanging around Holmeses for too long._

When Mycroft returned from stowing the coats, he turned to the older Alvarez brother. “If you will all take a seat, we will begin taxiing for take off immediately, per your request.” 

Antonio gave a curt nod and turned to stow his laptop bag next to one of the front seats. The plane was fairly small; the back half where Greg was seated had six recliner-like seats, three rows with one on each side of the aisle, while the front half had a large table with couch-like seats on both sides, so that two people could sit at the table facing forward while the two people on the other side would be facing the back of the plane. Two more well-padded seats were on the opposite wall from the table, not quite a large as the seats at the back to allow for an uncrowded aisle. So, it would seat twelve in complete luxury, or at least, it would feel luxurious if Greg wasn’t stuck leaning forward at an odd angle thanks to being cuffed to the tray table. 

His seat was in the last row, on the same side of the plane as the door. The brother’s men made their way to the back section, and one stopped the check that Greg’s cuffs were securely fastened to the bar of the table. He didn’t blame him for checking; he wouldn’t trust Big Tony’s handiwork either. Fortunately, it seemed natural for Greg’s hands to be fisted in the circumstance, so he was able to keep hold of the key. The two seemed fairly unconcerned with him, and settled into the two seats on the other side, in the rows ahead of him. Perfect. He was worried one would sit across the aisle from him, and he wouldn’t get a chance to use the key at all. 

Mycroft was still standing near the front, observing as his passengers settled. 

“Hey, man, can I get a…” 

“Just sit down. You can wait until we get in the air.” Antonio quelled his younger brother with another harsh look. “You’d think you have the wits to want to be off English soil as quickly as possible.” 

_Don’t let any Welsh people hear you say that…_

Armando made a face when his brother turned to find his seatbelt, but flumped himself into one of the seats on the other side of the table without another word. 

_Damn. Of course he’d pick a seat facing backwards; makes it a bit harder to unlock the cuffs without being seen. Maybe he’ll fall asleep._

Within a couple of minutes, all four were seated and belted and Mycroft had retreated to his alcove. Greg didn’t dare try to catch his eye as he passed, in case Armando was looking. The plane taxied out of the hangar and turned neatly onto the runway. _The joys of a private jet, or maybe it’s the small airport...last time I flew anywhere we queued for half an hour just to get onto the runway._

Greg watched out of the window as the plane lined itself up and then picked up speed, lifting off smoothly into the autumn sky, which darkened into a crisp blue as they rose above the early morning fog close to the ground. _I’m alive, and he loves me, and he’s here, and we’re flying...he found me. I should never have let myself doubt. I wish I had had the chance to tell him that I love him too…_

He found himself with tears in his eyes. They were tears of happiness and relief and a bit from exhaustion, but he hoped that they’d be misinterpreted as fear if anyone happened to notice. 

*****

Fortunately for him, as the plane levelled off and the others settled into their seats preparing for a long flight, no one seemed to be paying him any attention at all. He had become an inconvenient piece of luggage, and he tried his best to remain quiet so as not to disturb the illusion.

Mycroft emerged with a small silver tray of scones and fruit, which he placed by Antonio’s elbow on the table. 

“May I bring you a beverage, sir?” he addressed the elder brother first. 

“Coffee, two sugars.” Antonio had pulled out his laptop and didn’t glance up. 

“And for you, sir?” 

Armando left off scowling out of the window long enough to request a beer.

This did cause his brother to glance up. 

“Una cerveza? At eight in the morning.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Armando replied mulishly. 

Antonio just looked at him for a moment. Greg couldn’t see his expression from here, but he knew exactly the older-sibling-disapproves face he was making. And like most younger siblings, Armando turned to Mycroft and confirmed. “I want a beer, Corona if you have it, or whatever.” 

_Yeah, he’s going to have that beer now just to show he doesn’t care what his brother thinks, whether he wants it or not. You would think he’d had enough last night, although maybe he didn’t drink as much as some of the others. Does Antonio not realize how this works, or is he hoping his brother will drink himself to sleep and leave him alone during the flight?_

“Very good, sir.” Mycroft turned and made his way back down the aisle, stopping to confer quietly with the bodyguards. Greg saw Armando mutter something, catching only “alcohol” and “stuck in a can with you.” Antonio ignored him completely. 

Mycroft returned quickly with the requested drinks, and then began inquiring about further wishes regarding breakfast options. As he made another trip down the aisle, he did risk catching Greg’s eye and gave him a wink. Greg narrowly caught himself before he grinned back. 

Everything was quiet for a few minutes as the non-hostage passengers sipped their morning drinks and Mycroft bustled around in the alcove, supposedly plating their breakfast requests. _Should I risk being cheeky and try to make an order? The smell of the coffee is killing me_. 

Greg, working surreptitiously as Mycroft distracted his captors with thoughts of food and drink, had managed to unlock the set of cuffs attaching him to the tray table but hadn’t yet managed to unlock the set on his wrists. The angle was awkward, and difficult to do without moving too much and drawing attention to himself, as Armando’s position on the couch had him facing right towards Greg if he happened to look up. 

As the plane smoothly turned, a bit of early morning sunlight flashed through the windows and into his eyes. It felt like just a taste of joy after the long, dark night of pain and worry. But... _now the sun is to my left, well, not directly left, but ahead and left...we’re flying south-east. Not west, not over the ocean...we’re not headed for Mexico. Mycroft must have the pilot on his orders...we’re on track for London if we stay on this heading. I wonder how long it will take Alvarez to notice? And who would have thought I’d be so happy to be part of a plane hijacking?_

The bodyguards were silent still; the larger one pulled out a magazine and started to read, while the other stretched his legs and shut his eyes against the light as he settled back into his seat after finishing his glass of Coca-cola. Mycroft stayed out of sight, although Greg could hear him moving around. At one point, he thought he heard a noise from inside the loo, but heard nothing further when he listed more carefully for a moment. 

The burly guard who had closed his eyes seemed to be drifting into a deeper sleep; his head began to loll rather uncomfortably. Greg watched as he nodded and gradually slumped further and further. The other guard, seated behind him, was still sipping his coffee and reading his magazine, but seemed to be flipping the pages more and more slowly. He shook his head as if to keep himself awake and brought it a bit closer to his face. 

Greg twisted his wrists a bit to fit the key into his cuffs, but the rattling of the chain caught the guard’s attention, so he pretended to be just stretching while leaving his arms in position on the table until he’d returned to his magazine. The guard reached for his coffee for another drink, but his hand seemed a bit wobbly and he very nearly spilt it on himself. 

A sudden thought occurred to him. He glanced up at the Alvarez brothers. Armando had defiantly downed his beer and set the glass at the edge of the table in an obvious gesture for a refill, but he was now propping his head up on his hand, with his elbow on the table. To Greg’s private enjoyment, his face slipped and he narrowly caught himself before banging his head on the table. 

“Just recline your seat and sleep, then, if you’re _that_ tired,” Antonio commented derisively. “It’s like travelling with a five-year-old,” he muttered, not quite under his breath. 

“What do you think you’re...eh, whatever.” Armando started to launch into a complaint, but didn’t have the energy to finish. “Yeah...sleeping.” It took him three tries to successfully hit the button to recline his seat, but he finally managed and flopped back, and began snoring almost immediately. His brother huffed. 

A noise brought his attention back to the guards. The near one had dropped his magazine. He reached for it, but it seemed reaching down was making him dizzy and he groped for it unsuccessfully before giving up and sitting up with his hands on his temples. Before he opened his eyes again, the other guard finally slumped sideways against the window. 

_They’re all going to sleep! He’s drugged them! Perfect!_ No one was looking at him at the moment, so Greg allowed a gleeful smile to cross his face. 

Mycroft passed by, brushing a hand across Greg’s shoulder as he went. 

“Was the coffee to your liking, sir? May I bring you a refill?” He addressed himself to Antonio, who seemed to be the most awake still, to keep his attention so that he didn’t notice his guards passing out behind him. 

The second guard now had his forehead resting against the seat in front of him, and appeared to be drooling. 

“No, nothing else at the moment,” Antonio responded. His voice sounded less commanding than it had been earlier. He closed his laptop and pushed it away, settling back to watch the sky out of the window. 

_I hope he passes out before he thinks about the fact that we should be over open water by now._

Greg couldn’t see his face from his position, so he didn’t know if he was asleep yet. Since no further coffee was required, Mycroft kept going towards the front of the plane, as if he were heading to confer with the pilot. 

Back to work with the key. Greg was focused, with his tongue sticking out just a bit, and he just almost had it...just a second more...this shouldn’t be difficult, but his arm was stiff with the dried blood for the day before, and his fingers were shaky with adrenaline and exhaustion and dehydration. 

“Pablo!” Greg started at the yell and dropped the key. _Fuck._ When there was no response from his men, Antonio struggled to his feet, a bit wobbly but still awake. He looked back to see his guards slumped in their drugged oblivion. “Armando, wake up _now_!” 

Armando, of course, only snorted and lolled his head against the window. 

Antonio had a look of pure rage in his eyes. Holding onto the table, he pulled himself to his feet and launched himself towards Mycroft, who was still reaching for the cabin door with his back turned. He pulled a knife from his open laptop bag as he moved. 

As Mycroft turned, Greg moved without thinking. His hands were still cuffed, but he ran forward, bouncing off the sides of the seats as the movement of the plane threw him a bit off balance. The motion and his half-drugged state slowed Antonio, too, though. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Mycroft spun and moved to block the arm holding the knife, and if he’d been thinking at all Greg would have realized that Mycroft surely had the training to defend himself, especially against a compromised assailant, but he was moving on instinct now. 

Throwing his arms over Antonio’s head, he caught him by the throat with the chain of his cuffs and dragged him back into a choking hold. Antonio began to struggle, now trying to reach to stab backwards, but Mycroft moved quickly and aimed a blow at his knife-wielding arm. The knife clattered to the floor as Greg yanked harder, nearly lifting him off of his feet, leaving the enraged man open to a sharp blow to the temple from Mycroft. 

Greg shouted as bodies brushed past him as the man he was choking stumbled and began to sink towards the floor, now barely conscious. 

“We’ve got him, here.” Ah. Two MI5 agents had rushed forward when the shouting started, and now grabbed Antonio’s arms to hold him up while Greg managed to get his arms back over his head. _Were they crammed into the loo this whole time? I should have known Mycroft wasn’t stupid enough to take on four men without backup._

Another agent burst out of the cockpit, reaching for Mycroft. “Sir! Are you injured?” 

“No, no, I’m quite fine. Just get this poor excuse for a human out of my way, and make sure the others are secured before the drug’s intensity wanes.” 

“Yes, sir.” Mycroft stepped aside as they drug Antonio, whose eyes were rolling wildly, towards the back of the plane. 

And then he looked up and right into Greg’s eyes. Only two feet separated them now. They were both breathing a bit heavily after the short but intense moment. 

_Alive. I’m alive, and he’s here, and…_

“Gregory.” 

All thoughts stopped.

“Are you hurt? Let me get those cuffs off of you, and get you to a seat. I’ll bring you some juice, and…” 

“Mycroft.” Greg didn’t even care how needy and broken his voice sounded at that moment. “M’fine. You...you’re here...I...I lo…” 

The word wasn’t completely out of his mouth before he was being pulled in tight against Mycroft’s body. “Gregory...Gregory…” he kept repeating as he left little kisses on his cheeks and eyelids. _Oh god._

Greg tipped his head and their lips met. They poured every bit of their longing and fear and relief and giddiness into the kiss, intensifying and gentling as the emotions came. _Oh god oh god oh god I’m kissing Mycroft, and he’s here, and he’s mine, and oh god, please don’t let it end._

Mycroft’s arms tightened around his shoulders even tighter and Greg eased his mouth open and their tongues met. He made a muffled whimpering sound and tried to move even closer. _Mycroft._

At that moment, all he could focus on were the trembling lips against his, the soft tongue, the heat of being pressed against the ‘Iceman’ who was now clutching at his shoulders. He was only barely aware of the cuffs chafing his wrists and pressing into Mycroft stomach as he leaned into him, of the hunger and thirst and the fact that he hadn’t brushed his teeth in twenty-four hours, of the various aching bruises, of the tears that were gathering in the corners of his eyes. He had no idea how long had passed--seconds? minutes? hours? when they pulled back for air. 

“Gregory…” Mycroft breathed. “I thought I had lost you…” 

“I knew…” Greg sucked his a breath, and let out a rather delirious chuckle. _Have I ever been quite this happy?_ “I knew you’d find me...I kept thinking that I couldn’t die before telling you…” 

Mycroft unclenched one hand from the back of his shirt to wipe away the tear that had escaped. His fingers gently stroked the side of Greg’s face, carefully avoiding the darkening bruises of the black eye that would be quite dramatic for the next several days. 

“I love you, too, and I…” he got out in a rush. “I…” He didn’t even know what he was intending to say, but it didn’t matter, because Mycroft’s lips were on his again, soft and sweet and careful this time instead of the desperate intensity of the first kisses. 

The agents moving around the cabin had recognized the moment and stayed still and quiet until now, but as Mycroft pulled back again, they started cheering. 

Mycroft blushed, but didn’t move away. He looked younger than Greg had ever seen him, with a rather shy look of joy on his face. Greg just smiled bigger and started laughing. He tried to grab Mycroft’s arms and spin him around in happiness, but the movement reminded him that he was in fact still handcuffed. 

“Peters,” Mycroft turned to the closest agent, “go find the handcuff key.” 

“I dropped it near my seat in the back,” Greg interjected. The agent moved off immediately. The next agent clapped Mycroft on the back ( _we really broke the ice here,_ Greg thought, _I wonder how long it’s been since anyone dared do that)_ as he headed over with zip ties to secure the sleeping guards. 

Mycroft was gently rubbing Greg’s newly freed wrists when a voice came over the intercom. 

“This is your captain speaking. Thank you for flying We-hijacked-this-plane Airways.” Greg snorted as the voice continued. “I would like to take this opportunity to remind all agents of Section 4, Item 2 of the agency handbook regarding the confidentiality of the private lives of senior officials. I have some less genial announcements for our non-agency passengers, but I will wait until they have regained consciousness so that they can enjoy the full impact.” 

Mycroft chuckled and rolled his eyes. 

“And Mr Homes and Mr Lestrade...congratulations.” 

Everyone was laughing as Mycroft took Greg by the hand and pulled him towards the cockpit door. 

“Anthea?” Greg asked with a raised eyebrow.

Mycroft just smirked and opened the door. 

“Hiya!” Anthea was happily ensconced in the pilot seat and grinned up at them. 

“Of _course_ you can fly,” Greg laughed. He knew that if Mycroft had kept her around and close for this many years, she must have more talents than texting and staring down John Watson, so he wasn’t terribly surprised. 

“Yes,” Mycroft looked at her rather fondly. “She’s not one to underestimate. I took the role of flight attendant because she’s the better pilot.” 

“ _Better_ pilot?” she mumbled cheerfully. “Of course I’m the better pilot...no one is airsick, we haven’t hit any birds, and no tea has been spilt on the controls. Ahem.” 

“Anthea, we will need to have a meeting to discuss...the details of, um...the cartel info acquired...um, yeah.” Greg grinned and quirked his eyebrows. _Ow. Should probably leave eyebrows still until black eye goes away._

Anthea and Mycroft both laughed. “Might I just interject that certain events are classified and may not be disclosed without my express approval…” 

“Aw, Mycroft, you can’t just declare every embarrassing thing that happens as classified…” 

“Oh, can’t I?” 

“I’ll text you next time he’s in a long meeting,” Anthea added in a stage whisper. Mycroft just rolled his eyes again. 

“Remind me later to tell you about the Halloween costume debacle…” he added, still smiling. 

Greg laughed, but it quickly turned into a cough. In the excitement, his thirst had been forgotten, but the stiffness and pain from the past hours were beginning to creep back in. 

“My dear,” Mycroft look chagrined. “Come, let me get you a seat; I apologize for my thoughtlessness; you are in need of my care and I have been remiss in providing it.” 

“S’fine, I’m fine, but some coffee would be lovely, and maybe some of those scones I saw…” 

“Take care of him, Mr Holmes. We’ll be landing in twenty-five minutes at Heathrow.” 

Mycroft nodded distractedly and led Greg back into the cabin, closing the cockpit door behind him. “Thompson! Bring Mr Lestrade a bottle of water, and then prepare coffee.” 

Greg sank back into the soft leather of the couch, now free for their use as the Alvarez brothers had now been propped into the back seats, and sighed as Mycroft settled beside him, taking his hand and calling out orders for the agents to provide paracetamol and food and a warm cloth to wipe his face. 

No one commented on the fact that they seemed incapable of saying much more than each other’s names over and over for the rest of the flight. 

As the plane approached London, he thought, _Home. I’m going home. Mycroft found me, he loves me, and he’s bringing me home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. Reunited at last! I'm planning an epilogue that (if I can manage it; the longest smut I've ever written was only one paragraph) will include their celebrations (wink wink). And a bit about the fate of the rest of the crew. 
> 
> Thank you all who have commented and encouraged me; your reactions have kept me going. I know following a WIP isn't for everybody, so I'm so grateful that so many of you are enjoying this story. 
> 
> It's 5 am as I'm posting this; please let me know if I've missed something in my editing and spell checking as I'm getting pretty sleepy and may have missed something.


	24. Epilogue Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND FINALLY...THE EPILOGUE! I know, I know, I've taken forever to get this up here, partly real life being a bit crazy lately, and partly just having a bit of writer's block. Well, I knew how it all went in my head, but it seemed I could only get it down a few sentences at a time. Thank you so much to all of you who have followed this story and commented and encouraged me along the way, and thank you especially for your patience in getting this epilogue! 
> 
> After all that trouble, the epilogue turned out longer than I expected it to, so I've decided to split it into two chapters. This chapter does NOT contain smut. The second part, ch 25, is almost nothing but smut. So, if you do not enjoy reading explicit things, stop after this chapter. You're not missing anything plot-wise.

Anthea brought the plane down on the runway at Heathrow without a bump. Greg congratulated her on her exemplary piloting as he waited by the open cockpit door for Mycroft to join him before exiting the plane. 

“I love flying; I wish the opportunity to do so came up more often,” she grinned again. “Now, don’t you feel like you need to get yourself taken hostage on a regular basis just so I can practice, or anything…” 

Greg just laughed. Of course, he’d known Anthea for years, but generally just in quick moments when stopping by Mycroft’s office or being picked up in the car. She was always professional and exuded an air of business that did not invite friendly chatter very often, but it seemed that with Mycroft’s now-professed attachment to him, she had accepted him as one of the family. 

“Yes, yes, she is a woman of many talents. I do appreciate her taking the piloting duties to free me for other, more important tasks.” Greg felt an arm slip around his waist and leaned into the touch. He turned to see a playful smirk on Mycroft’s face; the warmth in his voice made clear that he was just teasing his assistant. 

She just rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to make a retort, but Mycroft turned away to answer a question from one of the other agents. 

“Sir, should we transport them all to…

While he was distracted, she added in a loud whisper, “He says that, but there’s a reason why he is chauffeured everywhere....he’s a menace to birds whether in the air or on land. The poor pigeons…” 

Greg giggled a bit tiredly. 

“I heard that.” Mycroft stepped back to Greg’s side and looked down his nose as his PA assumed the most angelic expression Greg had seen since his niece had tried to convince him that her brother had been the one to knock the living room lamp off the table. “Come, dear.” 

With one hand on the small of Greg’s back and the other on his forearm, he led Greg gently down the waiting steps. Normally, Greg would have protested at the coddling; there was nothing the matter with his legs, after all, besides the stiffness from sitting first on the floor of the van and then in a hard chair for hours, but he was exhausted, and it felt so good to be touched gently after the stress he’d endured that he allowed himself to lean against his best friend as he was walked the few steps to a waiting black car. 

“Home?” 

“Not quite yet, Gregory. First you need to be examined by a medical team to be sure the concussion is not more severe than it appears and that there are no further injuries that need to be tended.” 

Greg sighed but didn’t protest. He had expected nothing less and had the situation been the other way around he would have insisted on the same. 

***** 

Mycroft stayed with him as much as possible as he was poked and prodded and given a ct scan to be sure that no serious damage had been done to his skull by the butt of the gun. 

Back in a room while waiting for the results, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His adrenaline levels were dropping now that he was back in London, and the long night was making his eyes gritty and his muscles weak. 

“It’s okay if you sleep, dear; I’ll wake you when they come back to clean the wound on your arm.” 

Greg smiled without opening his eyes and drifted off immediately, the warm fingers gently wrapped around his wrist grounding him and making him feel safe enough to let his guard down again. 

He felt significantly better by the time he woke to a hand smoothing his hair back from his brow. 

“Gregory...the doctor is here to tend to your arm now.” 

“Mmmph...snooze button?” 

Mycroft just laughed. “I’m afraid not.” 

“Coffee?” he asked sleepily, smiling but still not opening his eyes, just to be contrary. He experimentally stretched his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry, my dear; I shall acquire some for you at the earliest opportunity. There is some water here for you.” 

“Mmph...okay, fine then.” He opened his eyes to see Mycroft smiling softly at him and the doctor standing rather bemusedly in the doorway. “Here, help me sit up.” Mycroft offered an arm for leverage, and the doctor stepped forward quickly to control the setting of the bed. 

A quick glance at the sunlight in the window told him that he’d slept a good bit longer than the fifteen minutes he’d expected; it must have been at least an hour, maybe two. Either the doctor had been held up with more urgent cases, or Mycroft had stood guard to keep him from being disturbed.

As it turned out, he had a quite a knot and a nagging dull ache, but no fractures, thank god. The gash on his arm needed stitches, and but the rest of his injuries just needed time, rest and a hot shower. A forensic tech had been sent by Scotland Yard; Greg patiently posed for several pictures of his black eye and stitched arm and surrendered his ripped and bloodstained shirt into an evidence bag, and then he was finally given clearance to leave with a prescription for pain medicine and a list of worrying symptoms to watch out for in case his head injury gave him any further trouble. 

*****

As they were leaving the hospital, again with Mycroft’s hand at his waist guiding him, Greg’s daydreaming about whether he was more desperate for a hot shower or coffee was interrupted. 

“Gregory...I am loathe to leave you to spend the night alone, especially after suffering a concussion. It may be presumptuous of me to ask, and I will respect your decision if it’s truly what you wish, but…” 

“Yeah, I’m not really in the mood to go home alone right now, either.” 

Mycroft gave a small sigh of relief. 

“In that case, would you prefer to be in your own familiar home after your ordeal, or may I take care of you at mine?” 

Greg thought quickly over his flat. It was fine, as far as one-bedroom flats went, but he worked so much that he hadn’t put a great deal of effort into making it particularly attractive. Also, he’d been meant to stop by Sainsbury’s on his way home if an inconvenient hostage situation hadn’t derailed his plans for the evening, so there was definitely no milk and probably no eggs. He tried to remember the weight of the coffee tin when he’d picked it up two days ago--was there enough left in it for two people? And had it been four days or five since he’d cleaned the toilet? 

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble--I’d be happy to be taken care of just a bit,” he answered with as much of a cheeky grin as he could manage in his exhaustion (the bruised eye didn’t help either; he kept forgetting about it and then remembering quite clearly when he moved his face too quickly.), “and you probably have coffee. I think I’m out.” 

Mycroft smiled down at him. “I am, in fact, well stocked with coffee. I am beginning to see how often the beverage occupies your mind.” 

“Oh, I don’t think of it at all, unless I don’t have some in my hand.” 

Mycroft left out a small laugh and took his hand, gently tugging him towards the exit. “Come then, a car will be waiting for us. I’ll have someone bring you fresh clothes from yours--is there anything specific you’d like to be conveyed to you?” 

Greg felt at his pockets, of course finding nothing. “My keys...well, shit, I don’t even know what happened to my keys.” 

“Gregory...my people have already hijacked a plane today; I sincerely doubt that gaining access to your flat will prove an insurmountable problem.” 

Greg rolled his eyes (Damn! Stop forgetting not to move your facial muscles!) fondly. “Fine. I won’t tell them about the Medeco pick-proof deadbolt, then, give them a bit of a challenge.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t quite call them pick-” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, nothing is _completely_ unpickable; Sherlock managed it once…” 

“Sir, I was asked to deliver this to you before you left the building.” A nondescript agent was waiting near the door, holding one of Greg’s jackets. 

“Ah, thank you, Edwards.” Mycroft took it from him and held it up for Greg to slip his arms into. The agent waited until had it on before stepping over to hold open the door for them. 

“You think of everything, don’t you?” Greg smiled up at Mycroft as they went out. 

“I do try to anticipate the likely eventualities,” he replied. “You have been through enough discomfort of late that I am loathe to see you outdoors in only a thin scrub shirt, despite the weather being fairly mild for November.” 

“You’re wonderful.” 

Mycroft gave him a pleased smile as he held the car door open for him. “I’m glad I--or rather, my agents--can be of assistance.” 

Greg slid in to find a large coffee and a pastry from the shop where he and Mycroft often met for their chats waiting for him. 

“Oh, you really are wonderful.” Mycroft slid in beside him and leaned over to press a quick kiss to his cheek. 

After a few sips, his brain was functioning well enough for the thought to cross his mind that this jacket he’d been provided had last been seen on the back of his kitchen chair. 

“So, love…” he started nonchalantly. “When you said it wouldn't be a problem for your people to break into my apartment, that wasn’t really a guess, was it?” 

“Well...no, I’d say it was rather a certainty at that point.” 

“Holmeses.” Greg rolled his eyes (ouch) and took Mycroft’s hand with the hand not occupied with his pastry. 

*****

Greg woke up slowly, registering first how comfortable he was, with the pillows fluffy and the clean sheets soft in the way they only feel early in the morning when a person is loathe to wake up and get out of bed. Before opening his eyes, he tested various muscles. As expected, he was still quite sore and stiff; the bruises would take a few days to heal, and his not-as-young-as-they-used-to-be joints were still protesting the rough treatment of spending a night handcuffed to a chair and being jolted around in the back of a van. The bed was cooler to his left and warmer to the right, and before his sleepy brain could recollect why that was, a hand gently brushed his. 

“My?” he only managed half the name as he cracked his eyes open just a bit. 

“Yes, Gregory, it’s me.” Mycroft was still in his pyjamas, with his head propped up on one elbow. He smiled down at the man in his bed rather shyly. It had been years since he’d woken up with someone, and even more since it was someone who he was actually glad to see in the morning light. 

Greg twitched his lips in the hint of a returned smile. He sighed happily as he squeezed his eyes shut again. Mycroft’s fingers tightened around his. 

“Time is it?” 

“Just past eight am.” 

“Mmph.” 

“Quite. Go back to sleep if you wish. Obviously, Scotland Yard is expecting you to take the rest of the week off to recuperate, and next week too if you so desire, though they would like a more detailed statement when you’re able.” 

“Yeah...s’good…” He smiled without opening his eyes and snuggled his face into the pillow. Ouch. Oh, yes, the black eye that had already been purpling impressively the night before. He turned his face and must have winced visibly. 

“I have water and paracetamol here if you are awake enough to take them; I would imagine your sleep would be more restful.” 

Greg didn’t really want to move, but he knew he was right. 

“‘Kay...mmmph.” He opened his eyes halfway again and pushed himself up with one arm, grimacing as the stitches pulled a bit. 

“Please, allow me…” Mycroft reached out a hand to steady him and yanked the pillows up against the headboard so that he had a place to lean back. Greg settled back and accepted the cup of cool water and pills gratefully. _It’ll be awhile before I take being able to have a drink whenever I like for granted._

Now that he was sitting up, the fog was clearing and he was waking up properly. After years of emergency calls at ungodly hours, he usually woke up quickly and efficiently, but he supposed that if anyone had an excuse for having a bit of a lazy morning, he did today. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft took the cup and reached across him to set it on the bedside table. 

“May I help you to lie back down?” Greg took a moment to respond as he took stock. He’d slept for the better part of eleven hours; any more and he’d just be groggy. He would need to use the bathroom soon enough that it was hardly worth having to wake up all over again, and the idea of breakfast was appealing. 

“Mmm...no, I’m just waking up slowly.” 

Mycroft, gently stroking his hand again, settled next to him against the headboard. Greg twisted his fingers around to imply that he’d like his hand held properly, and Mycroft took the hint, squeezing it gently as Greg fluttered his eyes open again and looked up at him fondly. 

“It’s nice, waking up next to someone.” Greg snuggled a little closer. “‘Specially since it’s you.” 

Mycroft answered with a gentle kiss on his forehead. Greg hummed and let his eyes fall closed again. 

“Do you have any particular requests for breakfast?” 

“No, but I’d like some...anything’s okay. Don’t really like anything raspberry.” He felt Mycroft nodding. 

They sat for a few more minutes as Greg woke up fully; he would have liked to have lingered longer than they did, but his bladder was becoming more insistent. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand before releasing it, and then shuffled towards the bathroom, stretching as he went. 

“Gregory?” He turned back to look at Mycroft, still sitting on the edge of the bed, who was noticing how gingerly he was moving. “Why don’t you take another hot shower to ease the stiffness, while I put together something for breakfast?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the next chapter is the smutty one, so fair warning if that's not your thing. For the rest of you: the porn I promised will be posted within the hour!


	25. Epilogue Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the smutty epilogue as they celebrate their reunion! I'm not planning to change the rating of the fic to explicit, as the only explicit scenes are in this chapter and it's clearly labelled and easily skippable without losing any of the plot. Please let me know if this is an issue; I don't want to scare off readers when 95% of the fic does not contain smut. 
> 
> That said, most of you who I've talked to have no problem at all with smut and so, enjoy. :)

By the time he exited the shower feeling fully alert and much less stiff, a pair of his own clean pants, flannel pyjama bottoms, and a soft jumper, as well as one of Mycroft’s fancy dressing gowns, were waiting for him. The house was quite well heated, and he did so enjoy seeing a flustered Mycroft, so after a moment’s thought he put on the pants with only the dressing gown over them, leaving the rest for later. 

After an omelet, toast, and some very nice coffee (during the consumption of which Mycroft kept sneaking little glances at the chest hair visible through the V of the dressing gown), Greg felt much better, but found that he was not allowed to so much as carry his own plate to the sink. 

“Hush, Gregory, of all days, you deserve some pampering today.” 

Greg pushed himself to standing anyhow and came up behind Mycroft as he rinsed the dishes. Sliding his arms around his waist, he rested his cheek on his back, rubbing slightly against the soft fabric of his dressing gown. He felt Mycroft’s breath hitch at the contact. 

He stayed, feeling the movement of the muscles under his cheek as Mycroft piled the dishes, turned off the water, and dried his hands. When he felt him still, he squeezed his arms a bit tighter and nuzzled against his shoulder blades. 

Mycroft made a noise that sounded like a giggle, if Mycroft was capable of giggling (Greg knew he'd never admit it, but that _was_ a giggle). Greg loosened his arms just enough for Mycroft to turn to face him, then squeezed tighter again as Mycroft brought his arms up to wrap around his shoulders. 

“Gregory…” 

“Mmm?” Greg continued his nuzzling, now into Mycroft’s neck. 

“I must admit...I am still rather in shock that a man so attractive as you is here, in my kitchen, in my arms...I…” 

“You think I’m hot, huh?” Greg smiled into the soft skin. He liked using crude terminology with Mycroft; it always made him a bit flustered. He started leaving little kisses against his throat. 

“I...yes, you are in excellent physical...mmph…” Greg gave a little nip. “And the warmth of your eyes...oh.” Another nip, a bit harder. Greg took pity on his ability to formulate sentences and leaned back to look up into his eyes. 

“Is it the black eye? Your bit of rough?” 

Mycroft snorted. “Of course not. I could hardly appreciate something that causes you pain.”

“How long have you found me attractive, then?” 

“I...well, for some time…” 

“Some time?” Greg grinned at him cheekily. 

“I thought you were quite handsome the very first time I saw you on the CCTV feed, the night you met Sherlock.” 

“That long, huh?”

“Yes, well, I have neither visual nor mental impairments, so I was capable of acknowledging your pleasing physical attributes. However, I was absorbed with building my career and Sherlock’s situation, and you were married and I presumed straight, so I did not think it wise to comment upon my observations.” 

Greg snorted. “Well, for me, I’m not sure exactly when I started noticing how your arse looks in your tailored trousers, but it’s been a good while. Looking forward to getting a better look…” 

Mycroft seemed to be rather at a loss for words at that. _Note to self: not used to receiving many compliments. Must rectify that,_ Greg thought. 

“And I also like this perfect bit here...you taste so good.” Greg returned to his little kisses up the creamy, soft skin of his neck. 

They found each other with their lips again, and Greg had intended to start with a gentle affirmation of a kiss, but from the first touch their lips seemed to cling in a way that made his stomach twist with want. 

Within seconds, the kiss turned rather dirty. Holding turned to clutching as they melted into each other. Greg let his mouth fall open a bit, inviting Mycroft to deepen the kiss, and he did not disappoint. He let out as much of a whimper as he could produce with his mouth being so thoroughly occupied. The slow slide of tongues made his knees weaken and he clutched tighter at the fabric of Mycroft’s shirt. 

Pulling back just far enough to speak, eyes still closed and panting a bit, he managed to get out, “Bed. Please take me to bed. Or a sofa, or…” 

Another slow, dirty kiss. 

“ _Yes_.” Mycroft began guiding him back towards the stairs. Their progress would have been faster, but they couldn’t stop clinging. 

They made it to the top of the stairs before Mycroft pushed him against the wall for a few more of those kisses in which their lips seemed to pull apart like toffee. Greg was made very aware that he was wearing nothing but a dressing gown and pants as Mycroft tugged on the lapels to loosen the front enough to slip a hand inside. 

Greg made a strangled noise as Mycroft stroked his right nipple in time with the stroking of their tongues. _Ooooh...he’s going to be the death of me, but what a way to go…_ He forced his hands away from the wallpaper they were scrabbling to clutch at. They floundered for a moment, patting at Mycroft’s sides and hips as he focused on the delicious kiss. 

_I’ve been wanting to..._ Mycroft let out a loud moan as Greg’s hands finally found a place to land, cupping his arse cheeks and kneading a bit. _Oh, god, yes, firm and yet so squeezable..._ Greg squeezed again as several very nice little scenarios ran through his mind--that arse, bent over a desk; that arse, straddling him; that arse…

He was forced to loosen his grip as Mycroft yanked the belt of Greg’s dressing gown loose and began massaging both of his pecs, with little flicks to both nipples. Greg had thought they’d been kissing hard before, but now--he felt that he was being devoured, and, oh, god, he didn’t think his nipples had ever been so hard in his life. He could do nothing but hold on to Mycroft’s hips as if he’d float away if not tethered. 

“Ohhh, god…” Greg found his voice as Mycroft abruptly left his mouth and began kissing rather sloppily down his neck and collarbone. “You’re...oh, yes...amazing...oh…nngh.” Mycroft’s mouth found a nipple and sucked, hard. Blood was rushing to his cock so fast now that he felt light-headed. “Bed. Now. While I can still walk.” 

They stumbled the last few steps through the door. Greg let the borrowed dressing gown fall to the ground as soon as they made it back through the bedroom door. Mycroft made a huffing noise and stepped back to stare at Greg in nothing but pants that were not at all hiding the large bulge of his nearly-all-the-way hard cock. His eyes roamed over his chest, tracing the scattering of dark hair not yet as silvered as the hair on his head, caressing the curves of his biceps and quadriceps.

Greg stepped forward and continued kissing him, a little more gently than they had been, as he stroked down Mycroft’s chest a few times before reaching for the first button (of _course_ he had worn a pajama shirt with _buttons_ , instead of a t-shirt…). Mycroft’s fingers played with the waistband of his pants as he took his time with the buttons. 

As the pyjama shirt fell open, Greg broke the kiss to look down and admire the dusting of reddish-brown hair decorating the pale skin. He pushed the shirt down Mycroft’s arms as he bent his head to brush little kisses across that perfect collarbone. As the shirt fell to the ground, he bent his head to continue the kisses down to one of the nipples that had immediately peaked as the cool air hit them. 

“Mmmph...oh, Gregory.” Mycroft’s hands tightened at his waist.

“Yeah?” Greg let go of the nipple enough to look up into Mycroft eyes and give a cheeky little smirk. Making sure Mycroft was watching, he slowly stuck out his tongue and licked slowly. Mycroft sucked in a breath and stared down at him and he gently closed his teeth around the nipple and tugged lightly. 

“Bed. Please. _Now_.” Mycroft pulled away and tried to tug him in the right direction. 

“But I didn’t get to taste the other one!” Greg grabbed him and started giving the other nipple frantic open-mouthed kisses--couldn’t let it be left out!--as Mycroft laughed and backed towards the bed, tugging Greg along with him when Greg refused to unlatch himself. 

When Mycroft’s bum hit the edge of the bed, Greg finally straightened up and grinned. 

“You are shameless, my dear.” 

"M’not shy, no.” 

Mycroft just rolled his eyes affectionately. “If you aren’t shy, then why are you still wearing pants?” 

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Greg stepped back and slipped his thumbs under the waistband. “Well, I won’t keep you waiting, beautiful.” 

And then he _winked._

 _Dear Lord,_ Mycroft thought, _that’s going to become a Pavlovian response. I might embarrass myself if he takes to doing that in public._ He held his breath as Greg pushed the pants down and off, still smiling like the cheeky bastard he was. 

Mycroft let out a choked little moan as he got his first good look at the only cock he planned to see (and admire) for the rest of his life. Perfect. Maybe just a slight bit above average length, and he could imagine that Greg knew how to use it well. Under his gaze, it went from mostly-hard to fully-hard, bobbing up and straining as if begging his hands to touch and stroke…

“Well, you know how to make a bloke feel good, with that expression.” Greg stepped forward and rested his hands on his shoulders. 

“Yes, well. May I?” 

“Whatever you like, love.” 

They both looked down and watched as Mycroft reached out a finger to gently trail a stripe up the bottom side of it, watching it bob as he let it go. He then took it in hand more firmly and gave a few slow pulls. 

“God, Mycroft, seeing your hand on me…” Greg huffed out a breath. Mycroft explored the head with his fingertips until Greg shivered. “You. Please. I need to see you, to touch you.” 

He stepped back until Mycroft had room to stand. “Can I?” 

Mycroft just nodded as Greg pushed his pyjama bottoms and pants down, relishing the warm hands as they dragged down his thighs. His cock popped out as soon as Greg got the pants clear, very narrowly missing hitting Greg in the face. 

“Oh, hello, I’m very happy to meet you, too.” Mycroft snorted with laughter at the ridiculous man who had paused in the removal of Mycroft’s clothing, still holding on to the pants now down around his knees, to speak to his cock. 

He stopped laughing and nearly choked when Greg kissed the tip of it. 

“I may not survive you.” 

Greg just smiled and gave it a few more sweet little kisses. 

“So you do have some ginger in you. Just like I’ve been imagining…” Another little kiss. “I was wonder...oh, oof.” Greg had crouched as he removed Mycroft’s clothing, and he was now wobbling as the squat he was doing caused leg cramps. 

Mycroft stepped out of the trousers and pants that had pooled around his ankles when Greg let go of them and reached to help him up, but not in time to keep him from tipping back onto his bum. 

“Well, fuck. There I was being all sexy.” Greg made a face. “M’still a bit stiff, I suppose.” 

Laughing, Mycroft helped him up. “My dear, I cannot envision any scenario in which I would not still find you sexy.” 

“Eh, just wait, I’m sure I’ll come up with something. Wait until the flu comes around again…” 

Greg allowed himself to be pushed and prodded onto his back on the bed, with his head supported on fluffy pillows. 

“Please, don’t let me cause you any further injury; if I inadvertently put pressure on your bruises, please say something so that I can adjust.” 

“Sure, yeah...m’fine. Just come here.” Mycroft climbed onto the bed beside him and leaned down to kiss him. Greg allowed it for a few moments before he started tugging at his arms until Mycroft took the hint and straddled him. 

“Yeah, come on, need to feel you.” 

“Oooh…” Mycroft lowered himself down onto his elbows so that they were chest to chest. With the touch of so much skin, the kisses turned sloppier and filthier. Greg’s hands wandered down to knead at his arse cheeks. 

They spent several minutes touching, stroking and making lewd little noises. Once they started frotting their cocks together, it didn’t take long for the precum to be not quite enough to make things perfect. 

“Do you have any…?” Greg stretched and put his hands behind his head as Mycroft leaned away. _I do believe that he’s just doing that to show off the musculature of his chest...ah, yes. He knows what he’s doing with that bit of flexing there. No matter; it’s having the intended effect on me._

Mycroft plucked a small brand-new bottle of lube from the top drawer of the nightstand. 

“Oh, a new bottle? You were pretty optimistic that date on Friday night was going to go well, huh?” Greg teased him. 

Mycroft blushed a bit, but it was hard to distinguish from the blush of arousal already creeping down his chest. 

“I am always prepared for any contingencies.” 

“I’m glad...did you prepare sharp fingernails to get the safety wrapper off?” Mycroft squinted at it, looking for a perforation. “By the way, don’t think you’ve got out of that date. I still expect to be taken out and shown a good time…” Ah, there it was. He tossed the wrapper on the nightstand. “...and I imagine I’ll be a bad man and try to get you into bed on the first date, so your boy scout tendencies will have come in handy, and….nnnngh.” 

Mycroft drizzled lube down onto Greg’s cock and licked his lips as he watched a glob of it slide down the side. 

Greg was a bit breathier when he started talking again. “On second thought, that small bottle may not be sufficient...Ohhh, fuck.” Mycroft began smoothing the cool gel down the very hot and twitching cock. 

For a moment, he was mesmerized with the feel of it slipping against his fingers, and his brain catalogued all the varying textures: the slick smoothness of the exposed head, the ridges of the veins running up the underside, the crinkly skin in the crease where his balls came together. He dripped out a bit more lube and watched it land with a splat on one testicle and slide slowly down to his perineum. 

“My...Mycroft…” Greg’s eyes were squinched shut and he was biting his lip. “Please…” The only reason he wasn’t writhing was that Mycroft was still sitting on his thighs. 

“Yes, Gregory…” He ran his lubed hand up his own cock to coat it and shifted forward until they were chest to chest again. 

“Yes...love...feels so good to feel you. I’ve been imagining what it would be like to be with you like this, and it’s so...mmmph.” Mycroft shut him up with a kiss that started out heated and just got dirtier as they began to rock together again. The lube did its job, and the slide made it hard to breathe. 

Sliding...kissing....panting....clutching….stroking...Greg had one arm around his shoulder, pulling him close, and the other hand in his hair and was trying to keep their lips together even as their grinding and undulating kept jolting them apart. Mycroft managed to just have enough awareness left to lift his hips enough to get a hand in between them, holding both cocks together, thrusting against Greg’s perfect beautiful cock. 

“Oh...oh...fuck...yes…” Greg was panting and Mycroft responded with a low whine. He’d always preferred for his partners to be fairly quiet in bed, finding their dirty talk ridiculous and distracting, but Greg was noisy and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. Maybe he should reciprocate? 

“Oh...Gregory...I want you…” 

“You have me...oh, god, oh god...My...yes, like that...come on, a bit harder…” 

“You...you...are perfect...your strong arms...your silver hair...oh...ah….your...your muscular th…” 

Greg cut him off with another hard kiss and an exquisite roll of his hips. Mycroft caught himself before letting out a rather embarrassing _squeal_ , managing to turn it into a long moan. 

For the next bit (minutes? seconds? hours?) neither was speaking, their voices devolving into grunts and moans and half-pronounced expletives, one of Mycroft’s hands gripping them both and driving them together while he propped himself on the other elbow, and Greg’s hands wandering and touching every bit of skin he could reach. 

“Mycroft!” Greg growled out. _Growled._ Those wandering hands momentarily lost contact with his back before smacking down on each arse cheek and grabbing on, pulling Mycroft into a deep thrust, and he was gone, feeling like his whole body was pulsing as he came, spilling out over his hand and Greg’s stomach. 

“Please please please...ohhhh…” He felt Greg go rigid beneath him and then he too was coming, reflexively arching and bringing his legs up to wrap around Mycroft’s waist. 

Mycroft collapsed onto him and then managed to slide to the side so that he was only half on top of him. He pressed his face into Greg’s shoulder as they both heaved and gasped and gradually subsided into a blissful haze. After they’d been breathing normally again for a couple of minutes, Greg turned to press a kiss into Mycroft’s temple and began to stroke gently with the thumb of the hand that was still on his hip.

“Well.” 

“Well.” 

“I’m quite glad my trip to the Mexican desert was cancelled. I don’t think I would have had as nice a time.” 

Mycroft’s stomach clenched at the idea of his Gregory being abused by those cretins and then tossed out in the desert like the burnt out end of a cigarette. _They could have killed him before going to the airport, before we caught up, or they could have beaten him severely, possibly disabling him permanently, or they could have…_ He rolled just enough that he could look up at Greg’s face. 

“Hey, there...I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said with a soft smile. 

Gregory was here, in his bed. They’d won. They’d just had really good sex. Mycroft sighed. “Well, I’m glad to know that my home is a better holiday than an all-expenses-paid trip to Mexico.” 

And with that, they were laughing, rolling and smearing the mess between them even worse than it had been. 

***** 

After a quick trip to the loo to unsticky themselves, they returned to bed, still laughing and poking at each other just because they couldn’t resist touching. 

Once they were settled, both on their sides facing each other with their heads propped up on one elbow and their free hands tangled together between them, Greg was already thinking about what else they might be able to get up to before the day was over. 

The next few minutes passed pleasantly as they caressed each other with their eyes and ~~bickered~~ chatted about where to go for their date on Friday night and planned scenarios in which Sherlock would walk in on them snogging--not to _avoid_ these incidents, but rather to _ensure_ them; Sherlock deserved to be disgusted by his brother and close-friend-and-colleague’s sex life now and then after all his antics they’d put up with over the years. 

“And you can stop by my office when…”

Mycroft’s phone buzzing on the nightstand brought him out of his fantasies and back into the world that apparently was still going on outside of this bed. 

Greg loosened his grip on him so he could roll to pick it up. 

“Well, fuck, hadn’t even thought about that...suppose I’ll have to get a new phone. Mine’ll be tied up as evidence for who knows how long.” 

Mycroft hummed in response as he sent a reply. 

“I suppose that your people rounded up everyone who didn’t get on the plane?” 

“Of course.” Mycroft set the phone back down. “The Alvarez brothers, of course, are being thoroughly interrogated by my people, and when they’re done playing with them, Interpol wants a go. I may drop by tomorrow to have a word with them myself. My staff are also drafting a memo to the Mexican ambassador expressing Her Majesty’s extreme displeasure with his countrymen’s actions. Suffice it to say that the Banahua Cartel reputation will not recover quickly.” 

“I had a feeling their days had been much less pleasant than mine.” 

“Quite. Although I’m still not sure if their fate was quite as bad, at least in the short term, as the rest of your captors…” 

“Mycroft…” Greg gave him a knowing smirk. “What did you do to them?” 

“Oh, I just had them driven back to London by bus.” 

“Well, I know they probably weren’t keen on another road trip after we’d just had one, but doesn’t sound too bad so far.” Greg was waiting for the punchline. 

“Slowly...” 

“Mmm, yes, I hate it when the trip drags on and on.” 

“...the other passengers of the bus were an offended Sherlock, a sleep-deprived John Watson, a _very_ outraged Sally Donovan and my most obnoxious agent.” 

“Oh dear.” 

“Quite.” Mycroft had kept a straight face so far, but broke out into a gleeful expression. With the glint in his eye, Greg could see that he was quite enjoying playing the evil villain. “For four hours, Sherlock deduced their most embarrassing secrets, Dr Watson glared at them while pointedly fingering his gun and discussing aloud the painful but survivable injuries he could cause with and without it, and Ms Donovan, well...let’s just say that she does not take kindly to being locked in a freezer and is not shy about expressing her displeasure at volume. Meanwhile, my agent mocked them and took video when they cried.” 

“I’ve seen Sally properly worked up...their ears are probably still ringing.” Greg laughed and wondered if he ought to feel just a bit sorry for them. The slight headache he still had and the pull of the stitches in his arm as he reached to kiss Mycroft’s gleeful lips reminded him that he really didn’t. 

Mycroft kissed him back, and then pulled back to say, “I believe Anthea is having a video montage complete with sound effects put together for you as a gift.” 

“Of course she is.” 

*****

Eventually they wandered downstairs for a mid-afternoon lunch and spent some time making phone calls to check on how the other officers were recovering from their injuries, to get the latest updates on the interrogations, and to be sure other work they’d each been involved in prior to being derailed by Alvarez was being handled appropriately by their respective colleagues.

Mycroft had just hung up and set his phone down instead of picking another contact to dial, and Greg took the opening to poke his head into his office. 

“Alright?” 

“Yes, everything seems to be handled for the moment. I…” Greg had crossed the room while he was speaking, and was now leaning over his shoulder so closely that his mouth brushed against his ear. 

“I need your cock in my mouth,” he whispered. 

Well, who was Mycroft to deny his beloved Gregory’s needs? In short order they were back upstairs and divesting themselves of the dressing gowns and any other bits of fabric that had been deemed necessary for eating lunch.

Mycroft had just hung his dress gown on its hook by the bathroom door and was turning to do the same with the one Gregory had abandoned in a pile on the floor when he had second thoughts. 

“I do not want to further exacerbate your injuries; I brought you to my home so that I could see to your needs and allow you to…” 

Greg cut him off with a kiss and then turned to arrange the pillows on the bed. “Mycroft. I said I wanted you in my mouth; I didn’t say I was getting down on my knees to be face-fucked. In fact, I intend for _you_ to be on your knees.” 

Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the bluntness. “But you desire to…” 

“Just be patient, love.” Greg sat on the bed and scooted up until he was sitting against the headboard, slightly reclined in the pile of pillows. “Look, I’m the picture of relaxation, with all these fluffy pillows. Now get up here.” 

Mycroft sat down on the bed and eyed his lover’s cock until it started plumping up. 

“Stop staring and come straddle my legs.” 

Mycroft moved slowly, but did as he was told.

“Up on your knees.” Greg’s ‘helping’ hands on the back of his thighs nearly threw him off balance, but he reached out a hand to support himself on the wall. 

“Mmm, yeah. That’s nice.” Greg's hands cupped the curve of his arse where it met his thighs. 

“Here, allow me to…” Mycroft started trying to manoeuvre a way to position himself in which Gregory could do as he’d promised without making him exert any unnecessary effort. 

“No, stop, you’re in the perfect position.” 

“But…” His penis was not in the right position...ah. 

“Got there, did you?” Greg smirked up at him. Mycroft’s brain must be turning to mush with lust; of course, once he was fully hard he would be in quite a good position. He reached to fondle himself to that end. 

“Nope. Not yet. I want to see if you can get that lovely thing to my lips just from me talking.” 

“So you think you can arouse me using only your voice?” Mycroft quirked an eyebrow.

***** 

Gregory could. Without breaking a sweat. Lord, the mouth on that man. _How can someone be so delightfully filthy and yet loving and gentle at the same time?_

“Wanna taste you...I need it, please give it to me, I need to suck...ah, hello, now.” The prick that had been bouncing off his chin since his first comment about exactly what he’d been thinking about in his bed after getting home from that Halloween party had reached its destination. He gave a little kitten lick to the tip. 

“Ohhhh fuck.” Mycroft shivered. 

“Got you swearing with one lick?” Greg looked quite proud of himself. Mycroft hushed him by smearing the now-leaking tip over his lips until he obligingly opened his mouth just enough to suck the head in.

Mycroft braced his hands on the wall and arched his back to keep from pushing forward too fast. 

Greg brought his arms up between Mycroft’s legs to squeeze the bottom of his arse cheeks. 

_Somehow him reaching between my thighs instead of around them makes this seem so much lewder…_ Mycroft shuffled a bit to spread his thighs a little further in response. 

Greg rewarded him by ducking his head to gently suck and kiss his balls. 

“Ohhhh, yes…” Mycroft wriggled with the intensity of it. “Please...oh... _oh_...fuck.” 

By the time Greg’s tongue returned to tease his frenulum, Mycroft was nearly shaking with the need to thrust; he braced his arms more securely on the wall over the headboard to keep himself in check. 

“Mmmm…” Greg moaned with enjoyment as he sucked it back into his mouth, bobbing his head to give Mycroft the relief he needed. 

It didn’t take long until Mycroft was gasping out how close he was, in case Greg would prefer that he be aimed somewhere other than down his throat. 

Greg looked up at him, meeting his eyes as he circled the head with his tongue again. The sight of this beautiful man _making love_ to his cock and conveying such trust and affection with his gaze nearly broke him. 

“Ohh, Gregory...I love you...I…please...love...ohhh…”

Pulling him deep into his mouth and using his hands on his arse to keep him there, Greg was moaning his response around his cock. 

And then the hands on his arse were _spreading_ his cheeks, just a bit, just enough of a suggestion...and Mycroft was falling, throbbing, spilling down Greg’s throat, gasping as he kept sucking him through it. 

His Gregory ran his hands soothingly over his thighs as they trembled with the exertion and helped him to lie down beside him once he’d stopped twitching. As Mycroft caught his breath, Greg ran his fingers through his hair and murmured little things to him.

“I love you, too...that was amazing...I love seeing you like this...love you…” 

As soon as Mycroft was capable of both movement and thought, he pounced, pinning Greg’s hips with his arms as he dropped himself into the v of his legs. 

“Gregory…” He began licking with abandon, repaying the favour. He gagged just a bit the first time he got more than the head in his mouth, but quickly remembered how to suppress the reflex and sucked him in down to the root on the next try. 

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck...ohhhh, god...My...oh, _christ…”_ Mycroft curled his tongue around the head before bobbing down again, successfully increasing the volume of Greg’s chanting. 

After several more long sucks, he pinned Greg’s lower leg with his knee--Greg was obviously trying to stay still, but was so far gone that Mycroft didn’t want to risk being kneed if he couldn’t help moving--so that he could have a hand free. He cupped his testicles, feeling them tightening in his hand, before pressing just behind them while pulling Greg deep again and swallowing around him. 

“OH FUCK. MY…” and Greg was coming, panting and groaning and clutching the sheets in a death grip. 

*****

Clean again (Mycroft thought he might need to invest in more flannels than he currently owned) and thoroughly sated (well, for a while, anyhow) and rather drunk on endorphins (and maybe a bit on the Scotch Mycroft had pulled out to celebrate), they cuddled together with the duvet pulled up to ward off the chill of the November evening. 

“Gregory...I’m not always adept at expressing the vagaries of emotions, but I…” 

Greg looked up at him with a soft smile and refrained from pointing out how verbose he could get when he was unsure, letting him take his time. 

“...when you were taken, I knew that I loved you, and my fear was that I had waited too late to express my true regard for you. I couldn’t fathom how I could bear it if you were not returned to me; I have always been able to compartmentalize my emotional reactions and focus on the task at hand, but on several occasions I found myself imagining every conceivable outcome and fearing that I would be too late to save you from injury or death, and I…” Mycroft cut off, near tears as he allowed himself to process the panic he had felt. 

“Oh, love. I know, and I know how hard you worked to find me. My biggest regret when I realized I might not make it out was that I would miss _this, us._ I was so looking forward to seeing what we could become together. I’m _so, so_ grateful that we made it here. I love you, Mycroft.” 

Greg pulled him in closer, and Mycroft pressed his face into his neck. 

“But if I had failed you…”

“But you _didn’t._ And even if I hadn’t made it...I knew you were out there, and I knew that you would do everything you could, and that gave me hope...but if the worst happened, I hope you know I’d not have resented you.” Greg kissed his forehead, as that was what he could easily reach, and pulled him even tighter to himself. “I’ve seen so much through my job--sometimes there’s nothing you _can_ do. It was rough, yeah, but you _did find me_. You brought me home, Mycroft.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS FINISHED!!! 
> 
> While I just started posting this fic in January, I've been writing it since last August. It feels a bit surreal that it's actually done. And while this fic is done; it is part of a series that I have many more ideas for, although I don't plan for any of them to be of this length or scope. Then again, when I started writing this, I thought it would probably be about 5k. It started out being about Sally and Sherlock's interaction in the chapter in which she and the others break out of the room and she calls him, but then I also wanted a Mycroft origin story for this 'verse, and so added in the idea of a worried Mycroft and a dramatic reunion, and then...well. 70k later... :D 
> 
> This is my first time writing smut of more than a paragraph. I hope it doesn't sound awkward; please let me know if you see anything terribly unrealistic. 
> 
> And finally, THANK YOU to all of you who have stuck with this fic and commented and encouraged me. You have made this fun, and I am so grateful for the attention this fic has received.


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